


Death Don't Have No Mercy

by dandyqueen



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Guardians of the Galaxy - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/F, F/M, Father-son dynamic, Gen, Major Character Backstory, Multi, Ravagers - Freeform, Time Travel, flashbacks aplenty, incorporates some comic-verse with some mcu-verse, yeah it'll be a little sappy but everyone loves a tragic hero
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-14
Updated: 2017-08-04
Packaged: 2018-11-13 22:04:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 32,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11194359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dandyqueen/pseuds/dandyqueen
Summary: Just thinking about how to get Yondu back from the dead was draining. Actually going through with Stakar's plan? Now that was exciting.(Or how Yondu's life can be summed up by a playlist of Terra's biggest hits from the 1970's.)





	1. Long Cool Woman (In A Black Dress)

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, it's been a LONG time since I've written anything Marvel-related. If all goes well, I'll be updating this on Wednesdays!
> 
> (Small note: I've incorporated some canonical alien species and places from the comic-verse and interspersed it with some non-canonical stuff. The OC's species is non-canonical.)

Peter Quill had never been on a mission to a bar before (he had been to a bar on a mission though, but that was unrelated). 

Yeah, he’d been traversing the galaxies and hopping from bar to bar with Yondu and the rest of his Ravagers for twenty years. He’d seen bars of all kinds: gross ones, ancient ones, the occasional skin bar (maybe not so occasional - this was Yondu’s crew, after all). They all had their own flavor of debauchery, but as bars go, Ravager bars tended to be… more disreputable than most, if not completely derelict. They were more about _gimme a fucking beer_ than catering to the whims of the patron. In most cases, it was where Ravagers picked up new business, got paid for old business, or got punched in the face repeatedly by someone twice their size. 

This one wasn’t too bad - it was actually clean - but it was quite clearly meant for the rowdy sort. The tables and chairs were haphazardly set like a battlefield full of blown cover, some were missing their wooden limbs, all were battle-scarred like determined soldiers. The floor was scrubbed clean, but scuffed and dented by angry shoes. Some of the lamps screwed into the wall had been broken off and welded back into place by an inexperienced hand. He pushed the chairs out of the way as he went, adding to the scuffs in the floor.

 The bar was completely empty, which was to be expected. Late afternoon was still too early for anyone to actually be in the bar other than the barlady.

 Aforementioned barlady was an older Waux female who had moved on from the pretty smoothness of youth to the tired handsomeness that some older women maintained as age began to set in. Her rosy-golden ponytail glimmered with a brassy cast in the dim bar light as she leaned against the bar. There were dark golden hollows carved into the milky-yellow skin underneath her eyes.

 She eyed his Ravager-esque color scheme, probably noting the lack of actual Ravager regalia, and slid over to him as he settled onto a bar stool. “What can I do for you?”

 “Yeah, uh, I’m looking for…” He looked down at the letter in his hand. It was dingy with age, and Yondu’s handwriting wasn’t exactly stellar, but he could make out the name printed carefully on the face. “Cirra? Kimra Cirra?”

 “That would be me. I’m Cirra.” She glanced at the letter, then back up at Peter’s face, studying him with grey eyes. “But who are you? You’re wearing Ravager colors, but I don’t know you.”

 “You know every single Ravager?” Peter asked, skeptical. He had learned to never doubt the prowess of a bartender, but there _were_ a lot of Ravagers out there.

 “If they’ve done business in this bar, I do. That’s part of my job.”

 “Fair enough.” He held out his hand, which she shook gingerly. “Peter Quill, I’m the man they call Star-Lord.”

 “Ah, you’re one of the Guardians of the Galaxy,” she said, pressing her plump hip against the bar. “And what would you be doing here in my fine establishment, carrying a letter that looks older than you?”

 In his infinite humility, he decided to take that as a compliment. “As you probably guessed since your name is on it, it’s for you. From Yondu Udonta. I got your coordinates off the stamp.”

 She took the letter from him. It was heavy in her hand, clunky and crumpled and so yellow that some spots were turning brown from age. The back of it was smeared with grease that probably didn’t come from Peter’s immaculately clean hands. She slit the side open with a knife from under the lip of the bar and shook the contents out into her hand.

 A link of chain fell out, glittering blue, and then a sheaf of paper fluttered down. She turned the chain link over in her hand before reading the paper.

 There was a moment of silence, but whatever Yondu had written didn’t take her long to read. She put her head in her hands and sighed deeply before tucking the paper back into it’s envelope. “Stubborn old bastard. How did it happen?”

 He gave her the short version. “He died saving me.”

 “Oh, you’re _that_ Peter.” She pulled out two glasses from behind the bar and a tall bottle of something sparkling purple. It smelled like straight death when she poured it into the tumblers. “I recognize your name now. You’re the last one of those kids he abducted.”

 Not a great way to be remembered, but better than being known as one of the previous kids. He nodded. “That’s me.”

 She took a slow swig of the drink she had poured, and Peter followed suit. It _tasted_ worse than it smelled. “And he kept you. I guess his conscious finally got the better of him.”

 Peter pushed the glass gingerly off to the side. “Who are you exactly, if you don’t mind me asking?”

 She turned the letter over in her hand. “Just an old girlfriend.”

 “Yeah, I don’t think he’d leave a handwritten letter for ‘just an old girlfriend.’ The guy could barely write his own name.”

 “Look, Peter, it’s a long story. And unfortunately I’m short-staffed, so I’m running this place by myself today and I don’t have time to tell it.”

 “Well, I’d like to hear it if you get the time. We’re having a ceremony for him tomorrow. I can give you the coordinates.”

 “Just write them on the back of the envelope. I’ll be there. No promises on the story, but I’ll make an effort.”

 Cirra turned the chain link over in her hand as she watched Peter slip out the front double doors. The chain link was just a trinket, like anything else that Yondu was wont to keep. It was a thick, wide hunk of A'askvariian azure steel that had once been attached to one of the leather bracelets she wore. It was perpetually cold in her hand, and it would stay that way no matter how long she held it.

 A little like herself. It’s probably why Yondu had stolen it from her in the first place.

 She untied one of the leather straps around her arm, looped the link through, and tied it back in place. It burned the back of her wrist the longer it sat there; it had been so long since she had seen the hunk of metal that she had long since forgotten how uncomfortable it was to wear at first.

 Peter had written the coordinates to his ship on the back of the dirty old envelope in his short, sloppy handwriting. It wasn’t far away from where they were, just on the outside of the quadrant. She folded the letter up and slipped it into the front pocket of her shirt (the only place that she could be sure wouldn’t be pickpocketed - Ravagers stole _everything_ ).

 It had pained her to run him off like that, but that letter had drained her already over-extended stamina. She’d been trying to hire another set of staff for the bar, but it was hard to find people willing to work in a known Ravager bar. Her bar wasn’t too rowdy - it was actually in one of the better spots in the quadrant - but potential employees tended to be put-off by the knife marks in the woodwork.

 Still, she supposed she’d have to apologize to the boy for being short with him. It wouldn’t be the first time her impatient temper had rubbed someone the wrong way.

 

* * *

 

The late-afternoon sun bled crimson and orange through the front window into Cirra’s dim bar. Sandakar had a three-sun belt that kept the planet on a dim-to-blinding light gradient so it never really got dark, but the perpetual daylight didn’t stop hosts of Ravagers from flooding her bar as soon as the clocks hit 17:00. It was an unerring constant: any miscreants within the quadrant would be appearing unfailingly, even punctually, on her doorstep as soon as the liquor started flowing.

What _wasn’t_ an unerring constant was Stakar Ogord and his entourage of underlings being the first Ravagers to cross her threshold.

Today had certainly been full of surprises, Cirra thought to herself.

Stakar was like a hurricane tearing through her establishment, all power and bluster in his blue bodysuit, sending his crew flying through the room like so much debris. He strode up to the bar where she stood and plonked down on a stool. The rest of them filled in single-file behind him.

He hunched over the bar, all rippling biceps and sneer-lipped business. Cirra had not seen him in person in years, but he seemed softer now, almost deflated, as hugely muscular men tended to get as they got older.

“I wish you would have called,” Cirra said, and began passing around containers of beer for everyone. “I could’ve gotten you some of that Terran bourbon that you like. I know a guy who likes to pop over there every now and then to scare the locals.”

Stakar passed on his beer to the man behind him, a rare gesture from him. “The drinks can wait until later, Cirra. We’ve got some important matters to discuss.”

 “Is this about Yondu?”

 “How’d you know?”

 “That last boy he abducted - the one everyone’s calling Star-Lord - came by. He had a letter for me.” She held up her arm; the blue chain link glittered on her wrist. “It had this in it.”

 He reached out and took her wrist. “It’s been damn near twenty years since I’ve seen that thing.”

 “You and me both, Stakar.”

 He touched the cold metal, marveling at the way it burned his finger. After a beat, he confessed, “Look, I’m not gonna beat around the bush here, Cirra. It’s time to get the old team back together, and I want you back on my ship.”

 “No thanks, I’m not coming back to go running off across the galaxy with you, and I certainly don't want my own ship again. I got tired of watching my crew get beaten up and killed every other day. And now there’s no hope of even getting Yondu back, so I’ll pass.” She paused. “Besides, I’d have to sell this place and it would be a goddamn problem trying to get someone to buy it.”

 “You know just as well as I do that I could have someone come in and take this bar in ten minutes if you wanted me to. Besides, Aleta would be glad to have you back, too.”

 It was hard to believe that he’d gotten hold of his wife at all. “You got Aleta to come back?”

 “Well, it wasn't the easiest thing I’ve ever done, but yeah, she decided to come along for the ride. Martinex never left, but Charlie, Mainframe, and Krugarr came back.” He had that Starhawk twinkle in his eye, and it was just as bright as the day she’d met him. “And I got somethin’ to say about getting Yondu back, too.”

 “Oh, no, don’t give me that look. I know what you’re thinking because I’ve thought about it before, too. And it’s impossible. No one knows where the Time Gem is.”

 “I do.”

 “Let me correct that: everyone who's anyone knows the Gardener has the Time Gem, but no one knows where _he_ is.”

 “Yeah, I know, but _I_ do.”

 She glared at him, incredulous. “And what did you have to do to get that little bit of information?”

 Stakar shrugged. “Nothing I’m real proud of, but I got it and that’s what matters.”

 “You know, I don't think I want to know how you got it, but I’m sure you’ll tell me later anyway.”

 The big man perked up. “So does that mean you’re in?”

 “Yeah, I’m in, so you can stop kissing my ass. Just get someone in here to watch my bar and I’ll come with you.”

 "I’ll let Aleta know you’re coming!”

 “Go ahead and send her a shout-out. But can you please get someone in here who won’t leave the place trashed? I do want a livelihood to come back to if we _don't_ find the Time Gem and we _don't_ die trying to get it.”

 

* * *

 

It was late the next afternoon when Cirra made the jump out to the end of the quadrant where Star-Lord and his crew would be holding Yondu’s vigil. Sandakar’s three suns had looped together in a straight line so that only one of them was currently visible from her side of the planet, so the whole face was cast in a dark orange light. The blackened deserts were visible far out past the atmosphere, sparkling in the dusky orange half-light like a sea of jewels.

 The location wasn't far from Sandakar, just a couple of light-years outside of it’s atmosphere, so it didn't take her long to find their tiny ship.

 Well, Quill’s ship was _relatively_ tiny. Compared to her ship, it was quite small, but then her ship was an old vestige from her time as a Ravager captain and while it had been meticulously kept-up, it was still thirty years old and borderline derelict. She couldn’t bear to get rid of it; she was still quite partial to the upholstery.

 She hailed them as she approached, and was answered by a green-skinned girl whom she already knew by reputation alone. Who didn't know Gamora, a daughter of Thanos and the deadliest woman in the galaxy?

 “Release the clamps on your airlock and we’ll pull you in,” Gamora instructed, ducking out of view of the hologram to flip a few switches on the dashboard.

 Cirra edged the ship in gently, allowing the magnetic outer clamps to find the appropriate purchase in the hull so that her ship could attach itself to the outside.

 She turned back towards the hologram. “I hope you guys have a big refrigerator on that tin can you call a ship. I brought beer.”

 Gamora smirked. “We’ve always got plenty of room for that.”

 The hologram blinked out, replaced by an empty metallic panel. She could hear the magnetic clips clunking outside to signal that it was safe to open the airlock. Once she got the confirmation hail from Gamora, she picked up her load of beer and headed over to Quill’s ship.

 Star-Lord greeted her at the gate and took the load of drinks out of her hands. His eyes were bloodshot, but he seemed cheery enough given the circumstances. She had to give it to him: he was holding himself together well.

 She pulled him over to the side before he could lead her back into the main part of the ship. “Look, Peter, I need to apologize for running you off like that earlier.”

 “No offense taken. I gave you a pretty big shock back there.”

 “Still, it was rude of me. I appreciate the invitation to your ship, and I’ll be happy to share some stories if you’re still interested.”

 “I’d like that. What do I call you, by the way? I didn’t ask earlier.”

 “Cirra. No one calls me Kimra. Well, not for the last twenty years or so, and even then… Yondu only called me that when he was mad.”

 Peter smirked at that. “Cirra, then. Do you… want to see him? We’ve been trying to gather up some of his things for the send-off.”

 “Yeah, I’ll add something to the pile.”

 Cirra thought about adding the chain link on her wrist to the funeral pyre, but reconsidered. Yondu had meant to give it back to her; it seemed almost an insult to cast it into the fire (not that it would probably burn, even in the ship’s internal combustion chamber). She thought about one of the many leather straps on her wrist, and finally decided on one that carried a string of pearlized Xandarian beads. He’d have almost definitely stolen that one off her wrist if he’d ever seen it; if it shined, he’d wanted it.

 Peter led her into the room down in the bowels of the ship that held the recently deceased Ravager captain.

 “I’ll leave you alone. Come back up when you’re ready.”

 She pulled up a chair next to his body and sat there, studying the lines of his face. “Damn, you got old, you stubborn bastard. But I guess I did, too.”

 She slid the beaded leather strap off of her wrist and affixed it to the arm closest to her. His skin was cold, even more so than the chain link on her wrist. “You should have called me after you decided to keep that boy.”

 There was silence, and after twenty years of dry eyes, Cirra began to cry.

 

* * *

 

The send off was magnificent, and to Cirra’s surprise, every single one of the hundred Ravager factions showed up to do it properly. She’d hopped back over to her own ship to let Peter and the rest of his crew have their moment, and to add her own contribution to the Ravager tribute.

 She’d fired off a long shot of blue-tinged rockets and timed them to explode along with the rest of the fireworks. The shots mingled in, sparkling, with the hundreds of rockets that had been fired off from the other factions.

 Once the factions began to disappear one by one, she crossed back over and settled in with Peter and his crew. They had migrated from the bowels of the ship to the main command section to relax and watch the remnants of the colors fade into space, each of them draped over a chair or nestled in next to the huge window that faced the vastness of space.

 After a long silence, Drax began passing out the drinks Cirra had brought.

 Cirra made herself comfortable in the middle console’s seat. “You ready to hear some stories?”

 “Hell yeah!”

 “Well, get comfortable. I’m older than I look, and there’s a lot of history there to tell.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is Long Cool Woman (In A Black Dress) by The Hollies!


	2. Lovefool

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there's backstory, and some beer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I usually update my fics on Wednesdays, but I finished a little early so here's the update for this week!

There are a few steps one must take when freeing a battalion of Kree battle slaves, the first of which being the most important (as first steps tend to be): take out the slave handlers  _ before  _ you go in for the slaves. Otherwise, the handlers are going to just shoot their captives in the back and the entire effort is going to be worthless. 

Unfortunately, some things have to be learned the hard way, which is why Stakar Ogord was returning back to his ship with five injured captives out of a battalion of thirty that he and his crew had intended to free. These five had survived the gunshot to the back that took out the rest of their battalion; the question was, would they make it back to the ship?

But Stakar was a man of action, and a man of action knew how to book it to safety when people were injured.

He’d hailed his med bay long before he’d gotten his rescuees to the ship. Thankfully, all of his charges were still alive when they got there, but each had a couple members of his crew (including himself) working to staunch their dripping wounds. 

Aleta had her hands pressed to the shoulder of one of the battle slaves, with Stakar working to hold the guy’s mostly-severed fin in place. This guy, a Centaurian, had gotten a bad shot in a worse place; his shoulder was perforated by a smouldering wound close to several large veins in addition to his mutilated fin. Perhaps his handler had been crueler than the others and tried to slice his fin off after he shot him, probably knowing that the fin was full of thick veins and that he would bleed out. Whatever the case may be, he needed medical attention. 

Stakar’s crew hit the bridge as soon as it was safe to open the airlock. They made a break for the medical bay, which was full of harried medics rushing to find space for all the new patients. All of the rooms had been opened by the time they got there, and they worked in tandem to get the injured captives into their rooms at the order of the medics. 

Stakar and Aleta brought the Centaurian into an open room at the behest of the chief medic, Cirra, and waited to be told what to do. She looked over the Centaurian quickly, then relieved Stakar of his position holding the fin in place.

“His fin will have to be removed,” Cirra said, examining the Centaurian’s bleeding cranium. “There’s no way we can reattach this many blood vessels. He’s going to be touch-and-go.”

“What do we need to do?”

She had scrubbed up as soon as the med bay had gotten the hail. “I need you to call for another medic for me, Stakar, and I need Aleta to keep applying pressure until the other medic can come stitch up his shoulder. I’m going to start removing the rest of the fin before he bleeds to death.”

Stakar stuck his head out of the operating room door and called for another medic. 

A squirrely-looking guy with wild blonde hair came running and pushed past Stakar so that he could scrub up. Once the medic was freshly scrubbed, he took over Aleta’s spot at the table and started cleaning the wound on his shoulder so it could be closed up. 

Cirra wiped sections of blood away from the separated fin and edged her scalpel under the hanging flesh. With a swift, decisive stroke, she cut clean through the last vestiges of the appendage.

At this point, Stakar and Aleta could do no more, so the pair of Ravager captains left the room so the medics could do their work.

 

* * *

 

“So that’s how he lost that fin,” Rocket interjected. He was lounging back in one of the console chairs, about two beers in (which was really two too many for something so tiny), with his feet resting on top of a lever that looked far too important to be used as a footstool. “I thought it might have just been for looks.”

“He never told me any of this,” Peter said. He had been letting Groot nap on his kneecap while he listened to the story, his hand wrapped delicately around the tiny tree so that he wouldn’t fall.

“I’m not surprised,” Cirra replied. “He always liked to rehash his old war stories after a few drinks, even back then, but I wouldn’t expect him to tell you about the fin.”

Groot rustled gently and reached out for Gamora. Peter handed him to Drax to pass along. “Is it a pride thing?”

Drax leaned forward in his seat and passed the tiny sleeping Groot to Gamora. The gray behemoth relaxed back into his chair and answered with his usual gruffness. “Yes. Centaurians are reputed to be savage warriors, even those who have been cut off from the rest of their species. The loss of his fin would have been a mark of failure.”

Cirra nodded in agreement. “There’s that, and the fact that losing his organic fin meant that a large part of innate Centaurian biology was effectively cut off from him. Centaurians are naturally able to commune with organic nature, which I expect was probably a solace to him as a Kree battle slave. The loss of his fin meant that he lost any empathic abilities that he had.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah,  _ oh _ .”

* * *

Cirra came to find them nearly an hour later.

“The Centaurian is critical, but stable.”

She turned to leave, but Aleta stood up to follow her with Stakar not far behind. “And the others?”

“I don’t know, I’ve only just finished with the Centaurian. I haven’t made my rounds yet.”

“We’ll come with you and see for ourselves, then.”

Cirra led them back through the medical bay, just short of where they initially entered. The hallways smelled like rubbing alcohol and cleaning fluid, with the underlying scent of blood permeating through the pervasive odor of hardcore sanitation. A handful of the medics were spraying down the floors and working to get rid of the blood that had dripped everywhere when the injured Kree slaves had been brought in.

She snagged one of the medics, an A'askvariian with ludicrously long tentacles, and pulled them over to the side. “What’s the status on the new patients, Sha’ar? Did they all make it?”

They folded their tentacles up against their body. Their voice emanated only slightly louder than an enthusiastic whisper. “Two of them did not make it. Both Calurnians have passed. The other three still live.”

“Alright. Make sure the Calurnians’ bodies are sent down to the crematorium. Also, where is Tenpin? She was supposed to look in on our patients while I spoke with the captains.”

“She is with the Gegku who still lives, I believe.”

“Thank you, Sha’ar. Carry on with your duties.”

Cirra beckoned Stakar and Aleta to follow her to the door of the Centaurian’s room. “Wait here, I need to speak with Tenpin. We can look in on the Centaurian once I return.”

She was back little more than a couple of minutes later. “The Gegku is stable and can be moved to a recovery room. He was shot in the shoulder, but the main concern was that he hit his head, so we’ll see what needs to be done if he wakes up. The Kamado is still unconscious, but suffered only a plasma burn to the back; the round could not penetrate his skin.”

Aleta sighed. “That’s good to hear, I suppose.”

Cirra turned the handle on the door. “The Centaurian is stable. If he makes it through the night, then I believe he can recover fully. He may need some sort of physical therapy to compensate for the loss of his fin, though. It could throw off his equilibrium.”

“Could you take care of that?”

“I can.” She hesitated before she nudged the door open. “What do you plan on doing when they wake up, Captain?”

Stakar shrugged. “Offer them a place here.”

Aleta agreed. “If they don’t want to stay here, I will take them where they need to go since I will be leaving to go back to my own crew in a few weeks. It will be no trouble.”

“We can decide later,” Stakar replied, motioning for Cirra to open the door. “Let’s take care of this first.”

Cirra pushed the door open as silently as she could, though she doubted that there was any danger of waking the unconscious Centaurian. 

He was soundly out of it and currently being sustained by medicines and liquids in fat, short bags. Tubes flowed out from almost every orifice of his body; a breathing cannula was plugged into his nose, several leads fed into the crook of his arm to replenish the blood lost and help with dehydration, and a catheter fed out from under the heavy blankets into an unseen bag under the bed. His blue skin was ashen - a muted, drained turquoise. She hoped for his sake that it would be a long, long time before he finally woke up.

Stakar sat down in the chair next to the bed while Aleta hovered next to his shoulder, peering over to occasionally to check the dripping medicine bags. Cirra fussed with some of the lines; she untangled them compulsively, smoothed them out, then checked that the surgical tape was sticking properly.

“His wounds were the worst of the five,” she said finally, sitting on the edge of the bed. She plucked the wrinkles out the sheets where they bunched under her thighs. “But Tenpin mentioned that the Calurnians had previous wounds that complicated things, probably abuse from their handlers.”

Stakar crossed his legs, leaning his chin on his hand. He noted the lack of fine lines anywhere on the Centaurian’s face; he must be quite young, possibly little more than a teenager. “This won’t be the last battalion we free. Next time, we’ll get all of them out, not just five.”

Cirra regarded him with steely grey eyes. Stakar wasn't old, but in that moment, he seemed as exhausted as a man twice his age. 

“Now that you mention it, what happened? It’s not like you to lose this many men.”

It was Aleta who responded, and even she (who rarely ever showed an emotion that wasn't bright, positive determination) seemed quite exhausted. “Some of the rear guard saw us coming and alerted the keepers. They didn’t wait for orders, just shot them all. These were the ones who survived long enough to be rescued.”

“What about the handlers?”

“All dead. We made sure of it.”

“Did you go back for the rear guard?”

Stakar shook his head. “We were a little too preoccupied for that.”

Aleta sat down on the edge of the hospital bed next to Cirra. She sat as far away from the injured Centaurian as she could, as if she was afraid that she would injure him further, though this meant that she was almost in Cirra’s lap. “I’d like you to help us next time, in case this happens again. We need a medic with us, and you have combat training so we won’t have to look after you.”

Stakar was inclined to agree. “I think that would be the best option. I trained you to fight, so now you’re gonna use it.”

“Whatever you need me to do, I can do it.”

“Aleta can get you back into shape, but right now, just make sure these guys get well.”

Cirra nodded and stood up, losing the warmth Aleta left from pressing into her side. “I’ll see that it’s done. I need to go see about your team right now since they haven’t been looked at, but I’ll come back in and check on him later. Stay as long as you feel is necessary.”

She left, closing the door gently behind her.

* * *

Stakar didn’t make a habit out of prowling the medical bay on the average day, but lately he had been popping in and out whenever he got the chance. It had gotten to the point where he was making rounds in the med bay almost as often as the medics on duty.

There were only two patients left in the medical bay, now that the Kamado has woken up. In fact, the purple-scaled man had woken up only a few hours after being brought in on the first day.

Stakar had spoken to the Kamado, who was named Bas, on several occasions and had already offered him a place on the ship. Bas had accepted immediately, on the condition that he would be included on any mission to liberate the Kree slaves. In the time that Stakar had spent  with Bas, it had become apparent that despite his level demeanor, he was quite upset that he was one of the few left from his battalion.

“What they did to us was despicable,” the Kamado said, his voice barely more than a strained hiss. The Kamado tended to have trouble speaking the Common Tongue, as their language was a series of emphatic hisses and grainy clicks. “We had each other, and that was it. All but one of my people are gone.”

While Bas had been dismissed from the medical bay in less than a day, it had taken several days to determine anything concrete about the Gegku. He had yet to wake up and, according to Cirra, likely would not.

She gave Stakar the report on the Gegku following his visit with Bas. “We did a scan, and whatever happened to make the Gegku hit his head left him with significant damage in his frontal lobe. Even if he did wake up, he probably wouldn’t know his own name.”

They had taken him off of the machines not long after that, and sent his body down to the crematorium with the Calurnians. 

All that was left now was to wait for the Centaurian to wake up.

Stakar had taken to sitting with Bas in the Centaurian’s room. The lizard-man spoke only rarely, but he visited the room daily even though he couldn’t stand to stay for longer than a few minutes.

“Yondu is quite spirited; it is distressing to see him in this condition,” Bas told Stakar while they sat observing the beeping machines attached to the blue male. His yellow eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, though his voice was audibly distressed. “He had a magnificent fin. It was quite a source of pride for him.”

It was well into sleeping hours several days later when the Centaurian finally woke up.

The medics had long since made their rounds and settled in. A few medics lingered at the front station, but they were the few that had been assigned to the late shift. Aleta slept soundly in the chair next to Stakar; she had always been able to drop off to sleep no matter where they were.

Stakar himself was drowsing, his chin drooping farther and farther toward his powerful chest. He was not quite so adept as Aleta at falling asleep anywhere they were, but he could drift off pretty quickly when time permitted. 

He was knocked out of his reverie quite viciously by a sharp intake of breath.

The Centaurian shot up from the bed, twisting violently, pulling at the tubes in his arm, and speaking wildly in Kree. Stakar jumped to his feet and grabbed him, trying to hold him down and stop him from pulling the lines out of his arm. He called out to Aleta, who had woken up and grabbed the Centaurian’s legs to stop him from kicking.

Stakar swore when Yondu bit his arm. “Aleta! Go get Cirra! She speaks Kree!”

Aleta bolted from the room and returned with Cirra. She pushed through the curtains obscuring the bed, rushing to the side that Stakar wasn’t currently trying to hold down.

“Hold his legs, Aleta!” 

She pushed down on his shoulder as gently as she could, but firmly enough to get him to lay back. Kree was not her native language, but she spoke it well enough and he seemed to calm down when he heard it. “[You’re okay, you’re in a medical bay! No one here will hurt you.]”

He looked at her sharply, red eyes bloodshot and bulging. “[You speak Kree. What the hell is going on? What are these tubes in my arm for?]”

“[You’re injured. You need to lie back down and relax so I can put the tubes back in your arm.]”

He ignored her order. “[Why does my head hurt? What’s wrong with me? I can’t feel anything and I can’t think clearly.]”

Cirra kept her hands planted firmly on his shoulder. “[Listen to me. I’ll explain what’s going on after I get the tubes hooked back up. If you don’t relax, you’re going to hurt yourself.]”

Finally, he settled back down against the bed. His teeth were bared; they had been broken into needlepoints and filed down to perfect sharpness. He said nothing, but he allowed her to start fixing the damage he had done. 

He had ripped the lines out of his arm, leaving the needles stuck in his skin. Purplish blood oozed out from the stretched skin, leaving his blue skin stained violet. Cirra removed the needles and taped gauze pads over the leaking needle tracks, then pulled his rig and line over to the arm that hadn’t just been torn open.

She hooked everything back into place and glanced over at Stakar, who was holding a gauze pad over the bite mark on his arm. “I’ll look at that in just a minute, Captain.”

“Nevermind that, what was he yelling?”

“He just wants to know what’s going on.”

The Centaurian looked back and forth between them, then settled on Stakar. “[I don’t understand what you’re saying. Can you speak Kree?]”

Cirra caught Stakar’s confused look. “[The Captain doesn’t speak Kree. I can translate what he says back to you, though.]”

Stakar started to speak again, but Aleta shushed him. “Let her finish what she’s doing. We can ask questions later.”

“Thank you, Aleta.”

Cirra finished taping the IV into the crook of the Centaurian’s elbow. She checked the bags (thank goodness he hadn’t gotten as far as snatching his catheter out) and fussed with his sheets, smoothing them and making sure that everything was clean and comfortable. He watched her quietly, jerking slightly whenever she touched him. 

“[I know you’re confused right now, but I need to ask you a few questions to assess your mental state. Can you tell me your name?]” she asked.

He was silent for a moment, as if he was too busy concentrating on watching her fingers move. Every motion she made was assessed carefully, as if to determine when he needed to pull away from her hands. 

“[It’s Yondu. Yondu Udonta.]”

“[Do you remember what happened?]”

“[Handler shot me in the back. Don’t remember nothing after that.]”

Cirra relayed the information to the two captains. “He doesn’t seem to remember having his fin cut off. Small mercy.”

She turned back to Yondu. “[Can you explain how you’re feeling right now?]”

“[Turning my head makes me feel sick and it feels like my fin is missing.]”

Cirra had noticed that he was reluctant to move now that he had calmed down, unless it was to try and pull away from her. 

“[That’s because your fin  _ is _ missing. Your handler cut it off. I had to sew your head up to stop you from bleeding to death.]”

He stared off into space, reaching up carefully to touch the space where his fin had once been. His nose wrinkled distastefully as he touched the bandages and felt the lumps in the material where the stitches raised his skin. A labored sigh fell from his lips, a breath that was meant to ground him to a reality that was slip-sliding around him. 

She sat down on the bed next to him. “[I can give you something to combat the nausea for now. I can also work with you to get your equilibrium back in check.]”

He seemed to stare past her, as if there was something vastly more interesting on the wall behind her head.  “[Just give me the nausea stuff and let me go to sleep.]”

She nodded. “[I’ll draw it up. We’ll speak again later.]”

He grunted, leaned his head back gingerly, and stared unblinking at the ceiling.

Cirra stood up and motioned for Stakar and Aleta to follow her. She shut the door behind her, but continued to peek through the tiny slivered window above the doorknob. 

“I’ll keep watch on him and let you know if there are any changes. He’s going to have a long road ahead of him. He’s nauseated just holding his head up.”

Stakar had nothing but faith in his chief medic; he had watched her bring his team back time and time again from the brink of death. A man missing his limbs could be rehabilitated, no problem. 

“You know what you’re doing. Keep us posted, and we’ll look in on things tomorrow.”

* * *

“So the first thing he did was fight you?”

Cirra was on her third (and final) beer. She smirked and downed the last of it. “Oh, yeah, and he fought me every step of the way after that, too. Definitely didn’t want me to get that catheter out of him.”

Peter made a face. “That’s almost as bad as putting it  _ in _ him.”

“Thank goodness he was unconscious for that. I never told him I was the one to put it in.”

“Way more info than I needed to know, honestly.”

She laughed and stood up. “Probably. But it’s late, and I need to be going. I have some important matters to take care of over on that wonderfully imposing ship you’ll see in the very periphery of your window.”

Gamora’s gaze snapped to the window. “When did that get there?”

Cirra gathered her things, glancing out of the window at Stakar’s ship in the distance. “Oh, it never left. That’s my ride. It’s been lovely meeting you all and sharing my beer. I hope that this won’t be the last time we meet.” 

She motioned for Peter to follow her. “Walk me out.”

He showed her the way down to the airlock. “Never thought I’d want to hear the old war tales.”

“Well, to be fair, I didn’t think I’d ever have someone ask for them.” She took his hand, noticing the rough callouses on his fingers that were not unlike the ones Yondu had always had. She untied one of the leather bracelets from around her wrist - the one that carried several large golden grommets embedded into the material - and slipped it over his hand. “Thank you for coming to find me, Peter.”

“If you’ve ever got some time…”

“If you want me to tell you more, just hail me. If I’ve got my data pad, I’ll answer. If I don’t have time, I’ll make time. Never be shy about asking for what you want.”

Peter nodded, twisting the leather strap on his arm so that he could tuck it into his sleeve. “Thanks for the stories, Cirra.”

“Anytime, kid.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be main storyline, maybe with a little backstory thrown in.
> 
> Chapter title is Lovefool by The Cardigans!


	3. Blame It On the Boogie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Old friends, slimy businessmen, and flavors of polyamory (hint: it tastes like beer and rose-colored nostalgia).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple of things to note: Stakar's ship is canonically named the Starship Captain America II, but that is in a future alternate timeline. In the current MCU where this is set, that wouldn't make sense. I have allowed myself a little creative license and changed the name of Stakar's ship to allow for better continuity (since I'm not sure what the name is in the MCU and I couldn't find a resource to let me know; if anyone could point me to a reliable resource, I will be happy to change the name to the correct one).
> 
> Also, in the interest of continuity as well, I have set the character's canon ages as being in tandem with the actor's age (i.e., Michael Rooker would have been 58 - 59 in 2014 when this is set, so I'll be using that for Yondu's age). The only character whose age I am aware of is Peter's (36).

The Starship Reaver was - theoretically - the essence of what a Ravager ship should be. It was well-maintained, imposing, with a functional crew and effective authority. Complaints were few and far between because, for the most part, Stakar let his crew do whatever they pleased as long as they did their jobs first. He encouraged time for relaxation, encouraged his crew to take jobs regularly, and (most importantly) encouraged them to steal a lot of valuable shit.

And, of course, they were pretty successful at that last one.

Essentially, the accepted reason Stakar’s ship was THE Ravager ship was largely related to the fact that Stakar had been doing this job for (it was rumored) around sixty years. This was, of course, a long fucking time for a Ravager to do _anything_ (including generally living). The simple explanation: Stakar knew what he was doing, and he was good at doing it.

However, once one got to know the captain, something else became quite apparent: he had a certain amount of charm. Cirra had come to believe that Stakar’s success was probably just the prowess of the man himself, not necessarily the length of time he had spent stealing anything that wasn't tied down. His ship had always run quite smoothly in all aspects, even back when she was just his chief medical officer. He simply had a way of commanding a room, of making it his domain even in the presence of kings. At his core, he was Starhawk, blessed by the Arcturian Hawk God, and he was a hurricane.

Stakar’s personable nature was probably the reason why Cirra actually agreed to set foot on his ship again, which was what she contemplated as his ship loomed closer. Not many people would have been able to butter her up well enough to convince her to abandon her bar and come back to the Ravager lifestyle. Yondu, maybe (though he’d only ever tried once and that had ended badly for everyone involved); Aleta, probably (she’d refused to try); but she couldn’t think of anyone else.

She’d hailed the Starship Reaver before her ship approached so the intake crew could already be prepared for her arrival. The docking bay was already open, and thankfully, finding a space for her ship in the bay was much easier in there than it had been on Sandakar (sand was not the optimal place to dock a ship). She edged her ship into a docking station and waited for the magnetic clips to attach to the bottom so it wouldn’t start sliding around with the motion of the Reaver. Once she got the confirmation that everything was settled into place, she signaled for the hull door to open.

She had hardly taken a step off of her ship before she was seized in a bone-crushing hug. One of her joints (and maybe a rib) popped like a firecracker in the night under the force. A curtain of black hair obscured her vision and tickled her nose; she fought the urge to sneeze and failed.

“I didn’t believe Stakar at first,” Aleta Ogord said, her voice a pleasant murmur in the Waux woman’s ear. “I thought he was full of shit when he told me you were coming.”

Cirra caught the scent of roses in the hot sun drifting off of Aleta’s hair and squeezed her, though Aleta still had her in a vicegrip. If there was anyone she had missed when she walked away from the Ravager lifestyle, it was Aleta. She let the dark-haired woman squeeze her in silence, enjoying the physical contact.

Finally, Aleta released her. Cirra took a step back, her hands still on her friend’s shoulders. The Ravager captain had quite literally not aged a day (unlike Stakar, who had aged _several_ days). “Me? What about _you_? I can’t believe you’re here.”

Aleta placed her hands on top of Cirra’s, as if to keep holding her for fear she might run off. “It was a difficult decision, but I saw little choice once Stakar told me what he was planning.”

“Yeah, I got the short version of the plan. The Time Gem, of all things. I don’t know how he plans to do this.”

“I  have heard some of his plan, and I believe it can be done. We will find the Gardener, Cirra. We will get Yondu back, and our team will be one again. We have wasted far too many years apart from each other.”

Cirra had not looked around to see who else was standing in the docking bay with them; she jumped when she heard Stakar’s voice close to her ear. “You two can cuddle up later. We’re headed to the control room right now.”

Aleta shrugged, and glanced pointedly at her rosy-haired friend. “Cuddling is not a bad idea, is it?”

“Better than anything I’ve gotten from someone else in the last, oh, ten years maybe.”

“I could take care of that for you later,” Aleta teased.

Cirra didn’t answer, because the sound of Stakar’s exasperated groan drowned out all thought. “Are you two planning on eloping?”

Aleta removed her hands from Cirra’s so that she could fold her arms over her chest. “You know you miss all those times when the three of us-”

“I’m too goddamn old for you to even finish that sentence.”

Cirra smirked. “I think he might have missed us, Aleta.”

“Absolutely.”

Stakar looked like a defeated man, which was coincidently what Aleta was aiming for. “Do I need to separate you two?”

Aleta snorted. “Separating us will get you nowhere.”

“I’m already having second thoughts about this. Can we go focus on the task at hand?”

“Lead the way, Captain,” Cirra said, offering an exaggerated salute and a quick wink. She, too, quite enjoyed busting Stakar’s balls. All in good fun, of course.

Upon walking through the ship, Cirra saw that not much had actually changed in the way the old Ravager ran things. His ship was an organized effort with a tight routine; all of his crew were in their assigned areas. They seemed like a tough bunch, perhaps rowdy, but they had all been put in their proper place and whipped into shape. They were clean-shaven and well-kempt. Their matching blue jumpsuit uniforms were even clean.

Cirra did not often see a clean Ravager, much less one who was relatively well-behaved. She was thoroughly impressed.

The control room that Stakar led them to was just as immaculate as the rest of the ship with it’s clean corners and tight organization, but it was infinitely more interesting because it contained, inclusively, Stakar’s original Ravager team.

They had all taken their places in the control room in such a way that Cirra was slammed with the brunt of nostalgia. Martinex stood at his first-mate post next to Stakar’s chair; he embraced Cirra enthusiastically when she entered the room. Charlie, Mainframe, and Krugarr had chosen their old seats next to the window. They provided a chorus of welcomes (or in Krugarr’s case, a pair of enthusiastic magical floating hands) for the three of them.

“I’m so happy you decided to come back, Cirra!” Mainframe’s cheery, chirping voice emanated from the unattached droid head. “Even Stakar doubted you would at first!”

The big man pursed his sneering lips and seemed mildly affronted. “I did not!”

Aleta leaned in close to Cirra’s ear and whispered, “He did.”

“With good reason,” Cirra snickered. Without his charisma and his intriguing plan, she wouldn’t have set foot on the ship.

He pointed at her. “I never doubted for a minute that you’d come back.”

Charlie raised an eyebrow. “Was that before or after you said, ‘she’s gonna call bullshit on this whole plan,’ Captain?”

“Hey, hey, and what did I say after that? I said that we’re all gonna get hurt and my chief medic wouldn’t let us get killed unless she did us in herself.”

As much as Cirra enjoyed busting his balls, she equally enjoyed watching other people do it. Still, she interjected to cut him some slack. “Alright, alright, we’re all back together, we can give him a hard time later. What is the plan here, Stakar? You roped me into this by saying you could find the Time Gem and get Yondu back. How do you actually plan on doing this?”

“We’re gonna steal some shit first.” He said it like it was obvious.

Cirra sighed, exasperated. “I got that part. Please elaborate.”

Stakar made his way over to the captain’s chair and sat down, crossing his legs and clasping his hands together. “First, we all know that the Gardener has the Time Gem. It would be easier to steal if he was still based on Terra’s moon, but he’s not. Last anybody heard, he’s relocated himself to the Seyfert Galaxy, quadrant M-77.”

Aleta cut in. “And there’s no jump there because he’s closed it off.”

“You got it.”

“That’s not possible,” Charlie said. “You can’t close off a wormhole in space. That doesn’t even make good sense.”

Cirra shook her head. “You can close it off if you have an Infinity Stone. Your potential is unlimited.”

One of Krugarr’s floating hands pointed down at Mainframe, gesturing for the android head to explain.

Mainframe whirred pensively; the cooling fans in the droid’s head were working hard. “He would have created a time loop over the whole quadrant, no one in or out. You can’t move through a jump if there’s no passage of time to jump through, but you can move across the periphery of the looped area if you’re close enough.”

Charlie nodded. “So we’ll jump to the next quadrant over and book it across.”

Mainframe beeped. “Have you been to the Seyfert Galaxy? It’s a warzone. We’ll never get through it if we jump there and go in blind.”

“We need someone who’s experienced with the area and can provide reliable guidance through the galaxy,” Cirra said.

Aleta agreed. “We’ll have to go to Knowhere to find someone willing to go.”

Cirra leaned back in her chair and regarded Stakar with chilly grey eyes. “This won’t be cheap, Stakar.”

“Don’t you worry about that. I know a guy.”

“Yeah, how’s that?”

He smiled. “The Seyfert Galaxy is home to a particularly illustrious vein of celestial spinal fluid, owing to the fact that the torso of Knowhere’s severed head is conveniently located in that vicinity. We tap that vein, my guy takes his share, he gets us through to M-77.”

“And have you actually discussed this with him?”

“No, that’s why we’re making the jump out to Knowhere tomorrow.”

Cirra leaned forward in her seat, grey eyes boring a hole into Stakar’s brown ones. “If your guy agrees to show us the way, then what are we going to do if we actually find the Gardener?”

Stakar matched her stance and leaned in so close they were less than a foot apart. “We’re gonna steal the fucking Time Gem from him and get our boy Yondu back.”

* * *

 

Knowhere was a lawless place, a haven for all things illegal and disreputable. It smelled of death and rot, which was to be expected: the whole despicable city was located inside of the decaying severed head of a long-dead celestial.

Cirra had not been to Knowhere in a very, very long time, but it didn’t matter. The place never changed. It was still gross and dirty, and it still smelled like old cheese. There were still bars spaced five feet apart, still markets and pawn shops to sell your wares and your soul if you had the inclination. There were still adrenaline junkies looking to score a big mission.

There were still information brokers on every corner, waiting to take care of your every need. For a price, of course.

And that’s exactly what Stakar had brought them there to find.

Cirra had gone with Stakar and Aleta to meet the former’s contact once they’d landed on the perpetual rave that was Knowhere. Hence why her shoes were covered in chunks of sticky brain matter that had dripped down from the top of the cranium and glopped onto the concrete sidewalks.

She kicked a heavy lump of ancient purple brain away from the steel toe of her boot. “Where is this guy, Stakar?”

“We’re almost there. Should be right around the corner.”

“You said that at the last fifteen street corners. They all look the same here. ”

“I know where I’m going; I was just using approximations.”

“Are your approximations _lost_ and _more lost_?”

But true to his word, they rounded another shady corner and came upon a large pawn shop guarded by two huge, beefy Kamado. They sniffed the air around them, homing in on the smaller humans. The lizard-scaled men scrutinized them thoroughly before allowing them to pass into the shop.

The shop was dark and cramped, but surprisingly clean. There were pedestals encased in bulletproof glass that showed off glittering jewels and even organic material from the celestial head. A large, high bar took up most of the back wall; it was likely that the shop was a repurposed bar.

“Really, Stakar?” Aleta asked, taking a good look around at the cramped shop. “You brought us to that Xandarian man? He’ll double-cross us as soon as look at us.”

“Yeah, I’m counting on it.”

Aleta didn't get the opportunity to ask what he meant by that. Instead, the three Ravagers were greeted exuberantly by a small, meaty fellow in a tailored pink suit. His hair was jet black, though perhaps not naturally, and fell in a ring around his head, rather like the black ring in the bowl of an unclean toilet. There was a number of large platinum signet rings on his fingers; they clacked merrily when he clapped his hands together in greeting.

“Stakar! To what do I owe this enormous pleasure?” the greasy man asked, clapping the Ravager captain on the shoulder. He glanced over at Aleta and Cirra rather too long to be appropriate before bowing graciously. “Ladies, you’re looking well! I rarely see such beautiful gems in my place of business.”

He leered at Cirra. “Especially not a Waux female such as yourself. My dear, where is your handler? Certainly your Enugan master wouldn't let you run around with pirates?”

Cirra opened her mouth to snap at the greaseball, but Aleta’s hand on her arm stopped her speaking.

“Leave him. We will take care of him later.”

“For his sake, he’d better hope for sooner rather than later.”

Stakar shook the man’s hand off his shoulder. “I didn't come here to get cozy, Tarp. I need a service.”

“My services are very expensive.”

“I think you’ll like my form of payment. Shall we head into your office?”

Tarp gesticulated grandly towards his heavy wooden office door. “Lead the way, my good man. We’ll talk shop.”

He led them into his office. It was a tiny space filled with grand things; his huge oaken desk took up most of the room, but he had no chairs other than his own. The rest of the room save for a couple square feet near the door was taken up by shelves. Every shelf was packed with glittery, glitzy, if not tawdry, knick-knacks.

They filed into the room behind him. Cirra squeezed in on one side of Stakar, Aleta on the other side, and less than an inch of space all around. She slipped one of Tarp’s knick-knacks, a huge pink belt-buckle made of crystal, into her pocket when she was sure the little slimeball wasn’t looking. She caught Aleta out of the corner of her eye slipping an Arcturian figurine into her pocket.

Tarp settled into the chair behind his huge desk, leaned back, and plunked his feet on top of the woodwork. “Now, Stakar, which one of my services were you considering?”

“I need one of your men to get us through the warzone around the Seyfert Galaxy. My team is planning an expedition to the Celestial Torso to tap the spinal fluid vein.”

“How dangerous! It sounds like an exciting mission!” Tarp said. His crocodile grin widened considerably. “You know I don’t like sending my boys into danger. I’ll have to charge you extra for this.”

“How about instead of charging me up front, I cut you in on the profits from the spinal fluid? That stuff sells better to the right people than any asking price for your boys’ work. If we don’t tap the vein, I pay you double your asking price.”

“What an interesting proposition, but how do I know you won’t just skip out on the payment?”

Stakar shrugged. “You don’t, but when have I ever left you hangin’ on a payment?”

“True, true. Alright, I’ll take the bait,” Tarp saying, producing a data pad from the confines of his desk. “I want forty percent of the profits from the spinal fluid vein.”

“I won’t cut you in for more than thirty percent. I have to pay my team.”

Tarp tapped his data pad. “Well, I suppose thirty percent will be enough to pay for my services, plus leave me with a nice little nest egg if sold to the right person. I’ll take it.”

“It’s a deal. Send your man out to my ship after sleeping hours tomorrow. We’re starting immediately.”

“Leave your coordinates with one of my boys outside. I’ll have my man out to your ship at 0600.”

“I’ll be on the lookout for him.”

The left, slamming the office door behind them. Aleta stopped to look at one of the figurines in the glass case and contemplated lifting it, but she noticed that the glass appeared to be polarized by plasma. It would deliver a healthy shock if she tried to touch it.

They strolled out past the two Komado at the door. The lizard-men sniffed the air, their scales glistening in the light from the street lamps. Stakar handed one of them a form with the Reaver’s coordinates; he took it wordlessly and went back to standing statue-still.

Once the three Ravagers were safely out of earshot, Aleta pulled her companions into the first bar she saw that wasn't totally derelict.

“So, how’s this going to work, Stakar?” she asked, her voice barely audible over the din and bustle of the bar.

Cirra found them a table in the corner, away from the patrons of the bar. “I’m assuming it’s got something to do with the guide he’ll send us?”

Stakar settled in the corner, eyes flitting around to make sure no one was within earshot. “We don’t want Tarp looking in on why we’re out near M-77, so we’ll have to take some creative measures.”

“Meaning?”

“We’re gonna kidnap the guide.”

“Stakar!” Cirra said, scandalized.

He snorted. “We’re not gonna hurt him, we’re just going to kidnap him and have him show us the way. We’ll cut him in for a margin of the profits, he’ll keep quiet, we’ll pay Tarp, and we’ll have Yondu back.”

Cirra didn't know anything about Tarp or his men, but from spending less than thirty minutes in his greasy company, she had figured one thing out.

“The more of this plan I hear, the less I think it will work,” she said.

Aleta took her hand. “It’s going to work, Cirra. It has to.”

* * *

 

Cirra had fallen asleep less than an hour after returning to the ship from Knowhere. They had quickly debriefed Charlie, Mainframe, and Krugarr; she had been left to her own devices after that. She had never been one to fall asleep easily, but once Aleta had walked her down to her old room, it was like she couldn't even keep her eyes open. Her pillow was so inviting, and she’d gone to sleep as soon as her head hit the pillow.

Sleep was a fickle acquaintance for her, but dreaming was like a distant cousin she had met once or twice and only vaguely recognized. In this room, her old room, she dreamt uninhibited. Her dreams were warm and vivid, blue-toned and rose-colored. Dreams laced with memories, fueled by excitement and determination, tinged with disbelief. It didn’t matter how much credence she gave to Stakar’s wild plan, she refused to let worry set in even in her sleep.

Yondu’s face, young and old all at once, swam behind her eyes, falling in and out of her memory-dreams. He was at once a dashing young pirate and a weathered old warrior, with smoothness and lines on his face in equal measure. He didn’t get to stay there for long.

She was awoken by the sound of her data pad chirping prettily in her ear. Peter’s face was plastered across the front, a mop of sandy blonde hair with a goofy grin. She slid her finger across the screen to answer.

“Hey, kid. What’s going on?”

Peter searched her face, noting the tiredness in her eyes and her sleep-roughened voice. “Am I bothering you? Should I call back later?”

Cirra blinked the sleep out of her eyes and cleared her throat. “What did I tell you before? You’re never bothering me. What can I do for you, Peter?”

“It’s been kind of a slow day around the ship since we’re just hunting around for some bounties to take right now, so I was wondering if you could pick up where you left off the other day? In your story?”

She sat up in bed and shifted the data pad to her lap. “Sure thing. Are you comfortable?”

“Yeah, I’m ready to go.”

“Then let’s get started. Help me out here, where did I leave off?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time, we get a big ol' long backstory chapter!
> 
> Chapter title is Blame It On the Boogie by The Jacksons!


	4. No Sugar Tonight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flirting, fighting, and other fun f-words!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple of things: Mainframe is technically an alternate future version of Vision, which of course wouldn't make sense in the MCU. For this purpose and to avoid continuity issues, Mainframe is a sentient android who has no affiliation with Vision. I will also be using gender neutral terms for Mainframe; canonically, they are male but I keep seeing MCU-related media identifying Mainframe as female (probably because Miley Cyrus provides the voice). To circumvent it, Mainframe will be referred to with gender-neutral terms.
> 
> Last thing: chapters will begin getting longer from here and will include more sauce-aaaay content. We gonna get some booty in a little bit. ;D

Yondu was, at his worst, proving to be a cantankerous patient. 

He had a good reason to be wary of the medics, of course; it was difficult to trust people who jabbed and poked and prodded you every time they walked in the room. Any time Cirra brought a needle close to him, he jumped. She could barely touch him without being stared down by a certain measure of distrust. She tried to remind herself that he had good reasons for his behavior (no one  _ really _ trusted someone waving a needle at them), but it was making her job that much harder just trying to take care of him. 

Nevertheless, he was improving physically despite his malcontent. The sutures on his head were healing up nicely and far more quickly than Cirra had anticipated. His shoulder presented more trouble since it had a pretty significant hole blown in it, but it was closing up fast. It seemed that Centaurians had accelerated healing abilities, even the ones who lacked the fin on their head.

However, Yondu’s main problem was the lack of coordination caused by the loss of his fin. The overwhelming nausea had finally subsided, but his equilibrium was still iffy; he was reluctant to turn his head in any direction or move too quickly. Forcing him to fight the nausea and get up and walk had been an endeavor; even with Cirra and another medic holding his arms, he was slow and frustrated easily. He could manage by holding onto Cirra’s arm and shuffling slowly, but he hadn’t got any farther than the edge of the med bay before he had to hobble back to his room.

Yondu may not have regained the use of all of his major motor skills, but that hadn’t stopped him from talking anytime he was in a good mood. Really, when she wasn’t stabbing him with a needle or trying to do any physical therapy, he was fairly pleasant to deal with. So far, his favorite thing to do was to ask Cirra a ton of questions every time she walked in the room. He questioned her about the ship, the crew, herself; he’d been trying to get her to explain what happened to his battalion, but she was under orders not to tell him as of yet. That was something for when he was completely healed, she said.

Cirra was not the only one to frequent Yondu’s room. Stakar came to see him daily, as did Bas. Aleta would come at least every other day to check in on him; usually, she would walk with Yondu and Cirra through the medical bay. Aleta liked to tease him, which usually put him in a better mood when he was dizzy. 

“At least you have two pretty women on your arm,” the dark-haired woman said as they walked through the halls. While Cirra would always make him hold onto her forearm, Aleta held onto his instead.

He smiled at that when Cirra translated, pointed teeth glinting in the bright light. “[I ain't gonna complain.]”

Yondu had eventually stopped being so fussy even when he was dizzy. Except now since he wasn’t dead silent from the nausea, he was playing Twenty Questions with Cirra while she worked or complaining that he was bored. Cirra had abruptly advised him that he could make an effort to  _ not _ have to have everything translated for him, so Yondu had been trying to pick up the Common Tongue while he was still down and out with nothing to do. 

“[Some of the older men knew it, but we’d get our asses beat if the handlers heard us speakin’ anything but Kree,]” he explained on one of his more talkative days. Cirra had come in to change the dressing on his shoulder, which meant no needles, so he was more content to talk. She preferred listening to him jabber on in his lowbrow Kree accent to being asked a million questions anyway. “[I learned a few words here and there but not enough to understand conversation.]”

Cirra made him sit upright so that she could start cutting away sections of the gauze around his shoulder. “[The Common Tongue is structured so that even species that don’t use phonetic sounds can use it, so you’ll pick it up quickly. And I’ll be here to translate as long as you need me to do so.]”

He watched her fingers intently as she worked in case he felt like he needed to pull away. “[Bas has been working on teaching it to me, seeing as how we’re gonna be hangin’ around permanently.]”

Cirra wasn't surprised to hear it. “[The captain already made you an offer?]”

“[The other day. Didn't really have to; I woulda stayed anyway. I was sold to the Kree as a baby, so I don't have much of a home world to go back to.]”

She wasn’t surprised to hear that either. The Kree didn’t need to capture their slaves; many species around the galaxy had no problem selling them their unwanted children. “[I’m sorry.]”

“[Nah,]” he waved her condolences away, dismissing them like a pesky gnat. “[This place don't seem too bad, no how. Money, adventure, pretty women...]” 

He winked at her; she rolled her eyes and might have snatched a little too hard on the gauze tape she unwound from around his shoulder. “[Anything’s better than the Kree. What happened to my battalion, anyhow?]”

Cirra sighed. “[We talked about this already. The captain will give you the debrief when you’re healed up.]”

Yondu twitched when she tugged at the edge of wound. “[Aw, come on. It’s not like I haven't already guessed what happened. They blew a hole in me and cut my fin off. Can't imagine what they did to everyone else.]”

“[I’m under orders.]”

“[Stakar won't find out. Come on, I’ll be real sweet. Won't even fight when you try to stab me again.]”

She smirked. “[Flattery doesn't work on me, but nice try.]”

Yondu smiled sweetly, which was impressive considering Cirra had started extracting gauze fibers covered in dried blood out of his wound with a pair of forceps. “[What does work on ya, then?]”

“[Not flirting.]”

He scratched the back of his head with the hand that wasn’t attached to his injured shoulder. “[Hell, I didn't mean it like that…]”

She raised her eyebrow at him, incredulous. 

“[Alright, I did. Ya ain't gotta call me out on it like that, though.]”

She snorted. He’d been flirting with her since his nausea had subsided and he could look at her properly without the room spinning. “[And deny myself the satisfaction? Try again.]”

“[Alright, well when do you think I’ll be all healed up?]”

“[Physically? About another week. As far as finding your balance, it could be a while.]”

He made a face. “[So do I have to wait until I ain't stumblin’ around everywhere?]”

“[No, that will have to be an ongoing process. I’ll clear you for debrief when your shoulder’s healed up.]”

He was silent for a while after that. He concentrated on keeping himself from flinching, even when blood welled up in the places where she removed the gauze fibers. 

“[Mind if I ask you another question?]” he asked finally, once she was done. 

She had finished cleaning him up and was wrapping his shoulder back up. “[You may.]”

“[How come you speak Kree?]”

She paused in wrapping his shoulder, then slowly began snapping tourniquets into place. “[I speak several languages in addition to the Common Tongue and Kree. It was necessary to learn.]”

“[Why’s that?]”

“[I was… I would prefer not to discuss why it was necessary.]”

Yondu shrugged with his uninjured shoulder. He could understand not wanting to talk about the past. His own had been bad enough. “[Fair enough, my apologies. Can I ask what else you speak, though?]”

She nodded. “[That’s fine. I speak Waux, all dialects of Enugan and Kree, native Xandarian, the dialect used by the High Sovereigns, and bits and pieces of others.]”

He whistled. “[That’s a damn lot of words.]”

“[I was an… attendant… to the Crown Prince of the Enugan state of affairs. There was great importance placed on my education.]”

Yondu tried not to give off the impression that he didn’t know what an attendant for the Enugan did, but he had a tendency to let his emotions show on his face. She could tell he wanted to ask why, but perhaps he sensed that it may not have been the proper thing to discuss.

It was the first time she had ever felt even a modicum of comfort discussing her childhood years, not that she wanted to per se, but if anyone would relate, it would probably be him. She’d been captured by the Enugan guard before she was able to walk which was traumatic enough, but he’d been  _ sold _ by his own parents. If such things could be considered better or worse, that was probably worse.

“[Perhaps we can discuss the oddities of Enugan society at a later time. We need to go for our morning adventure.]”

Cirra held out her arm for him to take so that they could walk through the med bay once he’d tugged his gown back over his head. He clutched her forearm as he stood up, his blue fingers starkly contrasting and warm against her cool opalescent skin. He didn’t particularly like using her as a crutch, but she would not allow him to let go of her completely until he could walk through the bay without stopping from dizziness.

On their way out the door, they caught Stakar just as he was passing the room. He stopped and moved into Yondu’s space on the side that wasn’t attached to Cirra’s arm. The muscular man didn’t crowd him, but he was clearly standing close enough to catch his charge on the chance that he took a tumble.

Stakar’s long strides had to be cut in half while he walked; he kept a slow pace with them while he talked. “Mainframe located another Kree battalion on this side of the quadrant. They think we could be ready to go on another raid by next week.”

“And I suppose you still want me in on it?”

“Yeah, I do. Go ahead and get a medical kit together so we can be ready.”

Cirra already had a kit ready. She was the chief medic. She had  _ everything _ ready. Stakar would only tell her to go and check over it if she mentioned it, though.

“I haven’t even started training with Aleta yet.”

“That’s why I came down here. When you’re done making rounds, she wants you to meet her down at the shooting range.”

“I’ll be down there as soon as I can.”

“No rush. You gotta do what you gotta do. And you know Aleta will find something to do with her time while she waits.”

“Yeah, sleep.”

He snorted. “Make sure you’re out of range of her fist when you wake her up.”

“I know the drill.”

Stakar parted from them at the edge of the medical bay so that it was just the two of them walking back. Yondu had to stop momentarily to regain his composure, but once he was ready to go again, he made quick work out of returning to his room.

“[What was the captain saying? I caught pieces of it. Something about the Kree?]”

“[Our navigator has learned of another Kree battalion somewhere in the quadrant, possibly a target for another raid.]”

The Centaurian brightened up considerably, his red eyes rapt with attention. “[So y’all were raiding the Kree battalions?]”

“[I am under orders not to debrief you, Yondu.]”

“[Ya just said it, and I’m not gonna tattle to the captain. Can you just tell me what’s going on?]”

Unfortunately, he had a point. Cirra huffed and explained while she helped him sit back down on the bed. “[Alright, I’ll tell you. The Xandarian police force has been paying Ravager factions under the table to liberate battalions of Kree battle slaves. According to the captain, the handlers in your battalion caught them trying to sneak in behind them. The handlers killed all but five of you; three later died. You and Bas are the only ones left.]”

“[If y’all are working on freeing Kree slaves, I want in.]”

Cirra rolled her eyes. “[You can barely sneeze without getting a headache right now. It’s going to be a while before I clear you to do anything more than walk by yourself and breathe.]”

“[Then I’ll wait ‘till you clear me, but I want in.]”

“[Talk to the captain when he debriefs you, then,]” she replied. “[But don’t you dare breathe a word that I told you what’s going on. Don’t forget, I choose the size of the needle that I stab you with.]”

He laughed at that, loud and boisterous. “[Aw, you know you wanna be sweet to me. We’re gonna be teammates, after all!]”

“[I already told you that flattery doesn’t work on me. Now, lay down before you pass out on me.]”

* * *

 

Peter’s wide blue eyes crinkled at the corners from the sheer force of his smile. “So, you guys went on this big, heroic raid together next, right?”

“Well, that’s not  _ exactly _ what happened…”

* * *

 

Aleta was an unforgiving trainer, and she dealt with her trainees the same way she dealt with her crew: no nonsense, no breaks, and no mercy. In fact, the first thing she did when Cirra walked in the door was remind her that while they might be friends, she was just going to work her even harder than the rest. 

Cirra had expected the Ravager captain to be tough, but not like this. Aleta had put her through the gamut the first day of training: a full physical assessment, accuracy test, and endurance training. Thankfully, Cirra wasn’t completely out of shape. It had been some time since she’d had to do more than haul ass through the med bay, but her time and endurance were still up to standard. Her aim was satisfactory, according to Aleta, but her stance was deplorable. And Aleta’s endurance test had to be the work of the devil.

They’d been working on Cirra’s aim for a week, but she still couldn’t seem to get the hang of the stance Aleta wanted her to use. At least she could hit the target, Aleta liked to say, usually with a smile. She would just move onto physical training with her after that. Cirra had always done better with hand-to-hand combat anyway; punching shit was not an issue. In fact, she was rather enthusiastic about it.

The two women had been trading blows back and forth for nearly half an hour when Aleta finally called for a break. It wasn’t that she was tired, it was that  _ Cirra _ was exhausted and just refused to back down. She’d keep fighting back until one of them knocked the other out.

Aleta threw a towel and a bottle of water to the Waux woman and sat down on the floor across from her. Cirra’s rosy hair was slicked back in a ponytail and soaking wet; her sticky opalescent skin shifted colors in the light, the green and pink shimmer in her skin magnified by the fat beads of sweat rolling down her arms. Aleta imagined that she looked pretty run-down herself; her dark hair was wet to the touch and her pants were uncomfortably sticky with sweat.

“You’re getting much faster. Now you have some speed behind your power,” Aleta said after taking a sip from her bottle of water.

Cirra wiped down with her towel and followed Aleta’s example by downing half of her bottle of water. She gasped, “We Waux aren’t really built for speed, but I’ll get there.”

“You have talent. We just have to hone it.”

“Thank you for having patience with me.”

Aleta beamed. “You are a pleasure to train. I’d like to bring you back to my ship with me, but Stakar would have a fit if I tried.”

Cirra snorted. “I’m sure he would.”

“I cannot blame him for that. You are an excellent medic,” Aleta conceded. “How is Yondu doing, by the way? I haven’t had time to stop by the medical bay to visit.”

“His shoulder is almost completely healed. I’ll be able to clear him to leave in a few days, I believe. He also says he only gets dizzy when he sits up now, so I’ll probably be bringing him down here to you for more intensive physical training once I clear him to leave the medical bay.”

“That’s wonderful!” Aleta exclaimed. “I’m glad to hear it. He’ll be a good addition to the team.”

“I guess that means he’s already talked with the captain about being part of the raids?” Cirra asked. 

“He has.”

“I should have expected that. He’s been quite adamant about it lately.”

“I’ve noticed. Yondu speaks very highly of you, as well. I think he’s taken a shining to you,” Aleta replied, winking. She’d heard the way Yondu spoke of the chief medic when Bas was around to translate for him. He was doing much better with the Common Tongue, but he still had trouble forming sentences, especially when he was excited. That didn't stop him from gushing about what a great doctor Cirra was to anyone who would listen. 

Cirra waved her hand dismissively. “He’s not the first patient to have a crush on their doctor and he won’t be the last. He’ll get over it.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

“Relationships between teammates don’t usually end well.”

“So you wouldn’t be interested at all?”

“Any interest that I have is of no consequence.”

Aleta downed the rest of her water and tossed the bottle in the bin across the room. “Oh, I think you deserve to enjoy yourself. If he’s interested and you’re interested, you should at least try it. No hard feelings and all that, you know.”

“It’s just a little awkward. I’m the one who's been stabbing him with needles and I was the one who put his catheter in and all that…”

The Ravager captain shrugged. “Then you already know what to expect.”

“Aleta!”

“It’s not a bad thing, I’m telling you.”

Cirra sighed. “Maybe not, but it’s just… That kind of thing makes me nervous. You know that.”

“I know, and with good reason,” Aleta said gently. “But you’re not an attendant anymore. Just take things slow. Very slow. The slower, the better, really.”

Cirra groaned. “I’m not even close to thinking about  _ taking _ anything.”

“Thinking about it might make you less nervous.”

“Or not. I haven’t tried anything like that in years, Aleta.”

Aleta leaned in close to her. “Well, maybe give it a try? When you lay down to go to bed tonight, just… go for it. Picture all that blue doing what you want him to do, add your hand, or get one of those fun little wands-”

“Yeah, no, I’m not there yet.”

“Consider it, that’s all I’m suggesting.”

There was a loud clanging noise, and quite abruptly, the ship shook like it had crashed against something. Both women toppled over on their sides, jolted by the sudden shock, and landed sprawled out on the floor. 

Mainframe’s voice came over the comms system. “ALL CREW MEMBERS REPORT TO YOUR STATIONS AND WAIT FOR INSTRUCTION. THIS IS NOT A DRILL.”

The women jumped to their feet and raced out into the hallway. The alert sirens had begun to screech and flash red, drowning out the noise of crew members racing to their stations. Cirra could see the hazy lines of the shields being raised through the portholes, and off in the distance, a huge ship with it’s blasters pointed at them. 

Aleta pulled her past a swarm of men charging to the control room. “Get to the med bay! I’ll page you and tell you what’s going on!”

“Be careful!” Cirra said, and took off down the hall.

She snatched a data pad from the medic station and searched around for a loudspeaker and a blaster. The armored supply had been unlocked when the alarms went off; all of the crew were required to grab one. Her team of medics were all hustling around with data pads and blasters strapped to their hips, checking on the few patients they had (there was a group of crew men who’d come back from Contraxia that morning with some kind of flu), and corralling each other into the front hallway.

Cirra stood up on top of the medic station and held the speaking end of the loudspeaker to her mouth. The contraption fizzled with static when she switched it on. “I need a medic in every patient room! Medics who do not have rounds today will stay with me! Everyone should have a data pad and a blaster! Get where you’re going and wait for further instruction!”

The medics scrambled off to their rooms, leaving little puffs of dust in their wake. The unassigned medics stood at her feet.

Cirra’s data pad screeched. She swept her hand across the front screen and waited for Aleta to debrief her. 

The dark-haired woman popped into view. “Keep your medics at the ready. We’re being attacked by the Kree battalion Mainframe identified earlier last week. We’re going to try to board them and release their slaves.”

“We’re prepared for casualties. Keep me in the loop.”

“Roger that. Charlie’s getting us ready to mount an attack. Mainframe will continue giving you updates. Be on the lookout for insurgents; we think the shot fired earlier might have been a distraction while our shields were down.”

“I’ll have my medics stay alert. Be careful, Aleta.”

The Ravager captain nodded. “I’m switching you over to Mainframe’s feed.”

Aleta’s face was replaced by Mainframe’s gunmetal-gray droid head. The android was attached to their body, which was quite rare; they reserved their body for emergency situations. Presently, the android was addressing all of the chief officers on the line.

“All chief officers need to stay on this feed and await any instructions.”

Cirra could hear a chorus of affirmatives funneling through the speakers as background noise. She added her own voice to the cacophony. 

Mainframe addressed her directly. “Officer Cirra, be on the lookout for anyone out of place or anyone who you don't know. An insurgent ship was found attached to the hull of the ship in your area.”

“Affirmative. All medics in my area are currently accounted for. I’m going to make my rounds. Sha’ar will monitor the medics on standby while I make my rounds.”

She caught Sha’ar and pulled the Aaskvarian out of line. “Keep order while I check the patient rooms and the rest of the medical bay.” 

Cirra passed by each room, noting which medic was with which patient. Some of the men were unconscious, others were merely moaning and groaning from the force of the flu. None of the medics looked particularly pleased to be attending to their patients, especially the medic whose patient had puked all over him. 

She stopped at Yondu’s room and peeked through the window. He was laying back in bed, glaring sourly at his the ceiling. Cirra remembered that he’d been assigned to Tenpin that day, and she knew he didn't particularly care for the her as his medic. It wasn't surprising that he looked so sour, especially coupled with the fact that he was confined to his room when he could pretty much do as he pleased now. Yet, when she opened the door to check on Tenpin, she found Yondu alone. 

“[Where’s Tenpin?]”

Yondu perked up when he saw her enter. “[Haven't seen her since this morning.]”

“[This might be bad. I need to go look for her.]”

He threw back the covers of his bed and hopped up, resplendent in just his mandatory-issue underwear. “[I’ll go with you!]”

Cirra shook her head, trying to look anywhere else than the mostly-nude Centaurian. “[Patients have to stay in their rooms, Yondu. You’re not in any condition to fight.]”

“[Come on, I’m all healed up and you need backup. Hate to tell you, but I’m the most qualified down here to fight.]”

Unfortunately, he was right. Medics weren’t trained to fight; he had been trained, even if it had been under less than ideal circumstances. 

Cirra huffed. “[I don't have time to argue with you, just come on. Get dressed while I contact Mainframe.]”

She turned her back and pulled out her data pad. “One of my medics is missing, Mainframe.”

The android whirred quietly. “You need to stay in the medical bay.”

“You know I can't do that. She might be hurt.”

The android beeped, displeased, but couldn’t deny her. “Go, but if I don't get consistent updates, I’m sending a squad down there to get you.”

“I’m going to start looking in the other patient rooms and make my way down to the area where the insurgent ship was found. Can you mark it on my data pad?”

“It’s done.”

“I’ll keep you posted.” She turned back to Yondu and found him shirtless, but thankfully with pants on. They were the cream-colored medical pajamas he wore when he went outside of the med bay, which was an interesting sight considering they were about to hunt down a missing medic. “[Can you use a blaster?]”

“[I’m better with my hands, but yeah, I can aim.]”

“[I’ll grab one from supply for you. Let’s go.]”

Cirra snagged another gun from the armored supply closet that was usually kept locked in case of emergencies. She handed Yondu a hefty blaster and let him configure the settings to his needs. He shoved the gun in the front of his pajama pants and followed her down the hall, padding quietly along the tile floor.

The other patient rooms down the hall were empty. Cirra nudged each one open gently, blaster-first, and checked them before closing and locking the door behind her. She’d heard nothing so far except for the far-off clamour of the medics at the front desk who were waiting for orders. Yondu was almost completely silent as he followed behind her, save for his low, slow breathing and light footsteps. He weaved slightly as if he was still unsteady on his feet, but it didn’t seem to impede him too much. Occasionally, the force of another blast hitting the shields would rock the ship, but all was fairly quietly.

They made their way down to the end of the medical bay. The bathroom door at the end of the hall hung slightly ajar, almost imperceptibly, but just enough to catch Cirra’s attention. She held out her hand to motion for Yondu to stop, and waved her blaster towards the door.

“[Something is off,]” she whispered in Kree. 

Yondu nodded, but didn’t reply.

Cirra inched forward and nudged the door open with the tip of her boot.

Another blast from the Kree ship rocked the Starship Reaver, this time hard enough to knock both Cirra and Yondu off of their feet. The door flew open, and out dropped Tenpin’s body onto the hallway floor followed by two enormous Kree soldiers.

Cirra screamed just as a plasma blast from a gun zinged by her head and singed the ends of her rosy hair. She rolled over just in time to avoid a shot to the chest and jumped to her feet, swinging her blaster around in time to catch one of the huge Kree soldiers in the chest with a plasma blast.

Yondu fired at the first Kree soldier’s partner and hit him squarely in the face. He grabbed Cirra’s arm and pulled her away from the body of the soldier she’d shot. He checked the bodies and made sure to fire another couple of rounds into them to ensure that they were going to stay dead.

“[I think we found your medic,]” he said, crouching down to press his fingers against Tenpin’s wrist. When he found no pulse, he stood back up and eased Cirra’s blaster out of her shaking hand. “[Page Mainframe and tell them we found the insurgents and the medic. I’ll keep watch for anyone else who might come along.]”

Cirra nodded and extracted her data pad from its strap. It shook violently in her hands, and it took Yondu’s hand on her arm to steady her. “We found the insurgents and my medic, Mainframe. Send a squad down here to pick up the bodies, please.”

“Cirra, are you okay? Your hair is burnt.”

She let out a shaky breath. “The insurgents attacked us.”

“Who is ‘ _ us _ ?’”

“Yondu came with me. Good thing he did or I’d be going with Tenpin down to the crematorium.”

“Stakar is going to kill me for letting you go down there by yourself.”

“Probably. Just tell him I wouldn’t let you send anyone down here and that Yondu saved my ass. How is their mission going, by the way?”

“Not well. The closer they get to the Kree ship, the more the Kree move away. I’m afraid they’re going to make a jump out of the quadrant and we’re going to lose them.”

“Can they get a tracer on the ship? We can keep their location and come back for them later.”

Mainframe beeped. “That’s a good idea; let me radio Stakar. Stay put until my team arrives.”

“I don’t think I can walk anywhere right now, anyway.”

She closed the data pad and sat back against the wall, head against her knees. She’d never been in a real combat situation before, and this was not a good start.

Yondu sat down next to her and tugged the data pad out of her hands. “[You hurt?]”

“[Hair’s a little burnt; nothing that can’t be fixed.]”

“[You’ll be fine. You did good for your first time.]”

“[Is it that obvious?]”

“[Veteran combatants use the buddy system.]”

“[This is not a mistake I’ll make again.]”

* * *

 

Peter hadn’t moved an inch since she’d been talking. “So what happened next?”

Cirra smiled. “They got the tracer on the Kree ship.”

“And?”

“And you’ll have to find out what happened next when you call me again. I’m going back to sleep.”

“C’mon, Cirra, that’s not fair!”

“Waiting will just make the reveal even more exciting!”

She clicked the data pad off right in the middle of Peter’s dramatic groaning. He tried to page her again, but she ignored the call and sent him a message instead with the promise of continuing her story in a few days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be the main storyline!
> 
> Chapter title is No Sugar Tonight by The Guess Who!


	5. What It Takes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Twists and turns and Ravagers reminiscing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No continuity issues to note, but I had to drink a lot of wine to get through this chapter. Plot filler really takes a lot out of me.
> 
> Also, if you're interested, I've got a fanmix on Spotify. Just search: you could have called me anytime - yondu/oc mix. Chapters are going to get much longer, so a little music might help. ;D

Cirra was awoken rather abruptly the next morning by Aleta beating on her bedroom door. Really, Cirra thought, she was more reliable than an alarm clock. 

There was a certain amount of dread that always came with being woken up so early by Aleta Ogord beating on her bedroom door. This dread stemmed in part from the natural reaction one has when being violently awoken from a good dream, namely bewilderment and terror for whatever situation lay outside the bedroom door, but also in part from Cirra’s extensive history with Aleta the Arcturian Alarm Clock, which meant that the dark-haired woman was gearing up to start her morning routine.

The dreadful feeling creeping into Cirra’s sleep-addled brain was fueled by the fact that Aleta was absolutely brutal in the mornings. Aleta’s morning routine was something that Cirra had extensive prior experience with, though not in the last twenty years, so she was unfortunately rather out of her element (and out of shape - beer will do that to you). In the ten-plus years before she left the Ravager lifestyle, Aleta’s morning ritual became so ingrained into Cirra’s day that she had eventually lost the ability to feel dread in any situation, so conditioned she had become to the physical strain. It appeared that she would have to get used to again. 

The Ravager captain’s hellish morning ritual was characterized by an early day (a 0400 alarm every morning), a morning workout that was closer to the physical fitness gamuts run by Arcturian demigods, and a hurriedly-eaten breakfast in the control room while she got the entire ship’s crew up and running. It was not for the faint of heart, and to Cirra’s knowledge, all of the women on Aleta’s clan ship had to take part in the routine every single morning.

Cirra had taken part in that ritual for years when she had been Stakar’s chief medic. As much as she loved spending time with Aleta, her morning routine had always been a real devil of a way to start the day.

She pressed the button on her data pad that unlocked her bedroom door and called for Aleta to come in. Aleta entered the room looking, as usual, like she was ready to face the day and kick it's ass, with her hair pulled up in a high ponytail and workout clothes. She was an almost comical contrast to Cirra, who was still buried under the bedcovers in one of Stakar’s cast-off undershirts that he’d supplied her with and a pair of clean pants she’d snatched from Aleta’s dresser the night before (she hadn’t had time unpack her things or bother the tailor yet).

To be fair, Aleta never judged what state of being she found Cirra in, and she had seen the Waux woman in much worse states than sleep-tousled. Aleta plopped down on the bed and stretched out, feet hanging just off the edge.

“It’s time to get up,” she said sweetly, reaching up to push a few fly-away strands of Cirra’s sleep-ruffled hair back away from her face. “We have a full day ahead of us.”

Cirra burrowed deeper into her cavernous mound of blankets and pillows. They did have a full day ahead with Stakar’s guide coming in, but that just seemed like an even better reason to sleep another couple of hours.

She mimicked Aleta’s deceptively sweet singsong morning voice. “It’s four in the morning.”

The Ravager captain began gently tugging the covers away, leaving Cirra shivering in the middle of the bed. “And there’s no better way to start the day than an ass-kicking. Get dressed.”

Cirra sighed, “You’re incorrigible.”

But she did as Aleta commanded and got up, joints creaking from sleep and shivering in the cool air. It was freezing cold on the Starship Reaver, which she wasn’t used to. Even the good, expensive air conditioning like the kind she had in her bar on Sandakar was shoddy, and she didn’t like the cold anyway. It's why she'd settled on a desert planet. She found a pair of ragged pants and an old shirt with the name of her bar plastered across the front - whatever would keep her warm - and threw them on. 

Aleta watched her change in silence. She didn’t know how old Cirra was now, but she hadn’t changed much over the years. She didn’t look much different than the defiant Waux attendant she and Stakar had rescued close to forty years ago. A little plumper, a few more lines here and there, a tired golden cast to her opalescent skin, but she was still Cirra. 

When they’d met, she’d barely been more than a plump little scrap of meat with a talent for words and a knack for first aid. She’d been craftier than they gave her credit for and tricked them into freeing her from Enugan service. Stakar had been so impressed, he’d offered to let her to come aboard his Ravager ship and trained her to fight so that words weren’t her only weapon. The fact that she knew medicine had cemented her a position as chief medic (and much to Aleta’s dismay, Stakar wouldn’t let her leave to come to Aleta’s ship).

Having Cirra back on board the Reaver so many years after the woman had given up the Ravager lifestyle was enough to show Aleta how much the Waux woman really missed Yondu. She wouldn’t talk about how she felt, not even twenty-odd years after the Centaurian had been exiled, but Aleta knew it had to hurt. 

Aleta could relate; she and Stakar had been married up until that point. Not that the state of their marriage really mattered; they were joined by the will of the Arcturian gods as separate pieces of the same entity. A small word like  _ divorced _ hardly mattered to the fate of the gods. But yes, it did hurt to have such contention between them.

Once Cirra was dressed, they left, leaving her room looking like a storm had come through it. They had much to do before they met Stakar and the guide in the control room.

* * *

 

Tarp’s guide was late, and Stakar did not take kindly to lateness. In fact, lateness was one of the few things that really just burned him up. He’d left men on Contraxia for weeks for being late back to the ship the morning after a raucous night, no matter how sloshed and torn up they were. This guy was not making an optimal first impression.

The guide was supposed to be on the ship at 0600; it was now 0830, and there was still no sign of him. Stakar had radioed Charlie down in the intake bay every half-hour on the dot, and yet there had been no signs, no transmissions, no nothing from the guide.

Stakar’s annoyance was becoming infectious. Charlie was starting to get more and more agitated every time Stakar radioed down, to the point where he wished the guy would show up just so that he could go about his day (or at least take a nap). His men had been prepared to inspect the ship for nearly three hours, and they were professionals, but even professionals get agitated. 

Stakar had started pacing the control room, which was definitely not a good sign. The more he paced, the more keyed-up he tended to get. He’d made his fourth trip around his control chair when Mainframe patched a transmission through. 

Unfortunately, it was not the guide.

Tarp’s greasy face popped up on the main screen, bulbous and shiny and looking decidedly guilty. He wrung his hands nervously, his toilet-bowl head gleaming in the light of his office. “My apologies, Stakar, my man is a little late this morning.”

The nerve of this little bastard, calling so late..

Stakar folded his arms across his chest. “Oh, you don’t say?”

“He’s getting off to a bit of a late start this morning, too many margaritas last night, you see…”

“Your payout is decreasing, Tarp. Get to the point.”

Tarp grimaced. “I’ve found you a new escort. They’ll be in your quadrant shortly.”

“Well, tell them to get a move on. We’ve got places to be.”

“They should be arriving within the hour.”

Stakar ended the call without replying. It was just like Tarp to pull this kind of crap, but couldn’t say he was surprised. This wasn't his first rodeo dealing with the Xandarian broker and his tendency to be  _ tempestuous _ at best with his promises. He knew better than to trust whoever Tarp sent him. The slimy old bastard had probably heard about the nice, big bounty on Stakar and figured up which deal would make him more money; this guide was just as likely to be an assassin as they were to be the real deal. 

Not that Stakar could blame the guy, but at least Ravagers had the code. Honor among thieves and all that. 

The change of guides was not the source of his newfound worry (though it was the source of the burgeoning ulcer in his stomach); it was more or less the  _ they _ part. Multiple guides meant it would be that much harder to go through with their plan. Kidnapping one guide was annoying; kidnapping  _ several _ was just a bad idea.

He paged Charlie down in intake and let the old soldier know the change in plans. The big man wasn't pleased, but he promised to make double sure to rifle through the new guide’s ship while Stakar had them in the control room. He’d get a good picture of who exactly they were dealing with, and decide what the necessary precautions to take would be.

And then they’d probably kidnap them. Fun stuff. 

Cirra was still appalled at that part of the plan, but she’d just have to deal with it. Ravagers had a code, but kidnapping perfectly capable adults didn’t break any of the (relatively few) rules. 

Any irritation that Stakar felt with her hesitance to fall back into form with the Ravager lifestyle was just a small blip on his emotional radar. He kept reminding himself that at least he had his chief medic back, and that he should be grateful she’d even agreed to hear him out back in her bar. It had been all that he could do to keep a full medical staff since Cirra’d left twenty years ago, though perhaps it was the dissatisfaction with her leaving he had transposed onto his medical staff through the years that kept good medics in short rotation. 

Really, he was just glad to have his team back. He never would have believed that they’d all be back together, not with everyone off commanding a ship or running Ravager facilities. Of his original team, it was only Martinex who had never left him; bless his patience, he’d dealt with the madness for about as long as Stakar had been a Ravager. 

As amazed as he was that he’d talked Cirra into returning, he definitely couldn't have imagined getting Aleta to come back to the Reaver. They had been divorced for a long time (and at odds with each other for a while before that), but they were joined together by the will of the Arcturian gods. That didn’t mean that had to actually have contact with each other, but he was grateful she had returned.

He was just about to radio down for Aleta to come to the control room when she and Cirra walked through the door, breakfast in hand. They both carried ration bars and water, and both were freshly showered. 

Stakar suspected that Aleta had probably roped Cirra into taking on her morning routine again. This was the most obvious conclusion for him, as Aleta was perfectly at ease in the control room (as relaxed as Stakar ever saw her) and Cirra looked beaten and harried despite being clean. 

Cirra had also obviously been forced to go to the tailor; she’d been supplied with the medical division uniform and decorated with the appropriate patches to denote her rank. She plucked at the form-fitting blue sleeves with distaste and pulled at the thick leather jacket that completed the suit. 

She caught Stakar smirking at her as she sat down. “The tailor laughed at me when I told him I wanted it in black.”

He leaned back in seat. “It’s blue or nothing around here, darlin’.”

“It was blue or nothing last time, too. You think you could have updated the wardrobe in the last twenty years.”

He shrugged, smirking wider as she pulled at the leather jacket again. “I’m the captain, and I like blue.”

Aleta sat down in the command chair opposite of Stakar, effectively stopping him from teasing Cirra anymore. She pulled out her data pad and perched it in her lap.

“Where is the guide?” she asked. “He was supposed to be here already, wasn’t he?”

Stakar grimaced, flashing his teeth. “Change of plans. I think Tarp pulled a fast one on us and changed guides to collect a bounty on me. They’re supposed to be here shortly, so keep close watch on them.”

“ _ They _ ? As in a team?” Cirra asked. 

“That’s what he said.”

Aleta swiped at the screen of her data pad, searching. “We’re going to have to come up with something different than kidnapping, Stakar. One guide was do-able, but multiple isn’t going to work.”

“I know that. I’ll think of something.”

“Threats of violence could work…” Aleta said as she settled her chin into her hands. “Or we hold their ship until they comply with us.”

“Whether or not that will work depends on whether they have friends, and how badly their friends are going to want them back,” Cirra said. 

She gazed out of the control room window, deep in thought as she stared off into the blackness of the quadrant they were in. There were no ships approaching that she could see, which didn't mean there weren't any out there. 

“Tarp won't send anyone after them if they’re not any of his boys,” Stakar said. “We’ll have to wait and assess the situation after I brief them on the Celestial Torso.”

At that moment, the main computer beeped and flashed a picture of Charlie. 

Stakar pressed a button on his control console. “Let’s continue this later, that’s Charlie.”

The huge soldier stared into the camera; behind him, several of his crew had begun to scramble around to get the docking station prepared for arrival. 

“Just got the hail from the guide,” he said. “Should be no more than ten minutes out.”

Cirra waved to Charlie, then addressed Aleta and Stakar directly. “You two stay here, I’ll go and greet our guides. I should be able to give Charlie more than enough time to get a good handle on their ship’s securities in case we need to hold them here.”

Stakar nodded. “We’ll work on the briefing until you get back. Call up and let us know what’s going on.”

“Will do.”

Cirra left the control room and headed down to the intake dock where Charlie-27 and a group of his men stood stationed. The Ravager captain was easily spotted among his crew; he was the tallest by a head, large and broad, with the biggest gun of them all strapped to his back. He ducked down to greet her when she entered the docking bay. 

The computer screamed when the next hail came through requesting that they open the docking bay doors. Charlie ordered his first mate to comply, and had his crew scramble for intake. 

As the ship came through the opening doors, a look of familiarity dawned on the old soldier’s face. 

Charlie tilted his head. “I recognize that ship. That’s the inner section of the Eclector.”

Cirra recognized it, too. It was Peter and his crew. 

Cirra snorted and shook her head, pulling her data pad out from her jacket pocket. “Well, I’ll be damned. Tarp sent the freakin’ Guardians of the Galaxy after us.”

Charlie growled. “I guess I don’t have to search their security functions, at least. The Eclector will have standard Ravager configurations.”

“I don’t know, that little raccoon is crafty. He might have added a few nasty surprises, so search it anyway. Tell them it's mandatory procedure on the Reaver.”

While Charlie stepped forward to wave the ship in, Cirra radioed the control room and shifted the data pad in her hand. Stakar and Aleta popped into frame, peering in at her. She felt obligated to warn them before she brought Peter’s crew into the control room. 

“Definitely scratch the kidnapping plan, Stakar, it’s not possible. But we may have just lucked out. We’ll be right up to see you.”

“Who’s down there?”

“The Guardians of the Galaxy, that’s who.”

“That little shit Xandarian, I knew he’d try to cash in on a bounty. Just wait until I get my hands on him-”

Aleta placed a hand on his arm. “Before you get worked up, Stakar, I think Cirra has a plan.”

“I’ll clue you in on all the details later, but I think this might work in our favor. Let’s brief them on the Celestial Torso first, but don’t forget that Star-Lord kid is Yondu’s boy. I think Tarp might have unintentionally helped us out.” 

“Are you saying we should tell them the plan?”

“I’m saying that we should give it some thought. Look, I need to go, the doors are opening. We’ll be there shortly.”

Cirra swiped down on the data pad, erasing Stakar and Aleta’s faces from view. She folded it into her front pocket and walked up to the bay where the Eclector’s tiny inner ship had docked. She stood stolidly next to Charlie, who was nearly a full foot taller than herself. (She liked to think she looked taller in her uniform, though.)

The doors of the Eclector folded out into a walkway, and out stepped the Guardians of the Galaxy. Well, not all of them; it was just Peter and Gamora who stepped out. The others had stayed behind on the ship, probably to keep watch on all of their valuables (with good reason, of course). Peter’s purposefully serious mouth broke into a wide smile upon seeing Cirra out in front in her Ravager uniform. She could swear Gamora even smiled a little bit, as carefully critical as her expression appeared.

Cirra smiled as Peter stepped out onto the Reaver’s dock. “You look familiar, kid. Didn’t I just see you the other day?”

He hugged her tightly after motioning to see if she would allow it. “I knew you were on a Ravager ship, but I didn’t know you were on the Reaver!”

“Yeah, looks like I’m back to the old Ravager grind, finally. But at least while you’re here, you can hear more of the old war stories in person, from people who were actually  _ there _ . Other than me, of course.”

She noticed the end of the leather strap bracelet she’d given him peeking out from his sleeve. She smiled to herself; it was pleasing to see that he wore it.

“Why don’t we head up to the control room?” Gamora said, once the introductions were given. “I’m quite interested to meet your captain. Stakar Ogord is a man of legend.”

“That he is,” Cirra said, waving for the pair of them to follow behind her. 

She caught Charlie ordering a group of his crew to search the perimeter of the ship. Perhaps she should have warned him about the remaining Guardians’ tenacity, but he was an experienced man. He could remain level-headed, even while dealing with Rocket’s outbursts.

The control room wasn’t far from the docking bay. They barely had time to start another conversation before Cirra was showing them through the door. She waved them onto the visitor’s couch where Mainframe was now perched, then took her own seat next to Aleta. 

Stakar faced his guests, his sneer-lipped mouth closed tightly, brown eyes searching between Peter and Gamora as if reading their minds. Even while doing nothing, the old Ravager had a tendency to be unintentionally intimidating. He seemed mere moments from pulling out his blaster and taking them both out, but Cirra knew him too well to think that was what was on his mind. He was irritated that Tarp had switched out their guides, and he couldn’t yet prove that they were here to collect a bounty on him. It irked him, and his poker face oftentimes wasn’t the best.

He made a steeple out of his fingers and brought them to his mouth. “I am Captain Stakar Ogord, of the Starship Reaver. Tarp did not give me any information on who you two are, though Cirra has thankfully clued me in. And I do remember your little raccoon friend hailing my ship to inform me of the death of our mutual friend, Yondu.”

Peter nodded. “Yes sir, that’s Rocket who hailed you. I’m Peter Quill; people call me Star-Lord.”

“That would make you Yondu’s boy.”

“That’s me,” Peter said.

Gamora held her chin high as she introduced herself. “And I am Gamora.”

Stakar regarded her with a level of respect that Cirra only rarely saw him give to anyone outside of his team. “Now that I see you, I recognize you. You’d be a daughter of Thanos, am I correct?”

Gamora held herself well, but Cirra caught the smallest of flinches tweak the corners of her mouth.

“Not anymore, but I used to be.”

He inclined his head, acknowledging her discomfort. “I apologize for any offense given. Your reputation precedes you.”

“Hopefully, I can change that for the better.”

Cirra interjected. “I’d say you already have. Peter tells me only good things.”

The green girl smiled. “Thank you.”

“How much information did Tarp give you about this mission? That way I’ll know where to pick up in the debriefing,” Stakar asked. 

Gamora responded. “He said you needed a guide through the Seyfert Galaxy to the Celestial Torso. And that he would pay us well.”

“Well, he’d be right on both accounts. Yes, we do need guides through the warzone and you will be handsomely compensated for your efforts.”

Gamora gave him a grave look. “Captain, are you aware that the Celestial Torso is filled with squatters and deserters from the war battalions? This will be an incredibly dangerous mission.”

He nodded. “I am aware. And it will be well worth it when we get what we’re searching for. We’re going to tap a vein of celestial spinal fluid. We’re planning to make the jump to the Seyfert Galaxy in the morning, so use today to familiarize yourself with the team and make the necessary preparations.”

“Stakar, Aleta, and I are part of the team making the run into the Celestial Torso, so feel free to ask us any questions you deem necessary,” Cirra added. “And I have no outstanding duties to attend to today, so I will be the most freely available to answer your questions.”

Peter perked up at that, as did Gamora. Cirra had the feeling she knew exactly what questions he was going to ask before the mission commenced in the morning. Clearly, by the look on Gamora’s face, he had been filling her in on the story as Cirra told it, or perhaps she had even been in the room listening.

Cirra got up and beckoned them towards the door. “If you’ll come with me, I’ll show you around the ship. We can speak as a full team later tonight, if that is amenable with Captain Ogord?”

Stakar nodded to the pair of Guardians. “I would like to meet your entire team, and familiarize you with mine.”

“That seems like an after-dinner plan. I will return after I’ve shown our guests around the ship,” Cirra said, and bowed out of the room, Peter and Gamora trailing behind her.

* * *

 

When Cirra returned to the control room after leaving Peter and Gamora at their ship in the docking bay, she found that Stakar had summoned Krugarr and Charlie.

When she sat down, Stakar turned to her. “Do you trust that boy?”

“I don't know him well enough to trust him, but I saw the way he looked when he took me to Yondu’s body. I’m inclined to believe that stealing the Time Gem would fall into his interests.”

Mainframe whirred from their place on the couch. “Do you think they’d be on board with the plan?”

“I think that we should broach the subject. The worst that could happen is they say no and try to double-cross us at the Celestial Torso, which we don't even know is the intent.”

Stakar took her at her word. “Then let’s see if we can get them on board with the plan.”

“We’ll take our dinner up here and work things out with them over a few beers,” Cirra said. “Aleta and I can corral them up into the control room later today.”

“We’ll let you do the talking,” Stakar replied. “You’re the one that knows him.”

* * *

 

It was around 2000 hours when Cirra and Aleta went down to the docking bay to retrieve their guests. They’d had dinner sent up to the control room along with a couple of kegs of beer; all they had to do now was make their way up to command.

And try to convince the Guardians of the Galaxy to go on a potentially futile, life-threatening mission to retrieve an old Centaurian. Daily matters and all that.

Peter was more than ready to get to dinner. He hopped up out of his seat. “Mind showing us the cafeteria? I could eat.”

“We have plenty of food on the ship,” Gamora said, pulling on the edge of his jacket so that he would settle back into his seat. “There’s no need for us to impose on their time.”

Cirra gave Aleta a look and waved her hand dismissively. “It’s no imposition at all, Gamora. Aleta and I are actually here to take you all up to the control room. We’re having a little team-building time before we make the jump in the morning.

“There will be beer, yes?” Drax asked. The tiny little Groot on his shoulder shook delicately with the vibrations of the huge man’s voice. Rocket nodded vigorously at his knee.

Aleta chuckled. “Beer on a Ravager’s ship is easier to find than water. I believe we will be able to sate your thirst.”

And that was how Cirra and Aleta ended up surrounded by the Guardians of the Galaxy in the control room, along with the Ravagers. The six Guardians ate with much gusto, as if the mere concept of free food was a blessing. Cirra and Aleta watched them with smiles on their faces.

“So, Cirra, do you think you could keep going with the story?” Peter asked, mouth full of food. He swallowed and dabbed at his mouth with a napkin. “I mean, we probably won’t have much time during the mission.”

Stakar took a hearty swallow of his beer and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “What story are you telling?”

“She’s been telling me the story of how she met Yondu,” Peter replied, crumbs falling from his mustache.

“You’ve been telling that boy the old war stories?” Charlie asked. Of the group gathered in the room, only he and Cirra were finished eating. The big man relaxed on his section of the couch under the window, content to nurse his beer.

Stakar edged in closer in his command chair. “You know, I’d like to hear your side of things, too. We never could get much out of you back then.”

Aleta sipped her drink, her knee touching Cirra’s. “I, too, would like to hear your perspective on things. There is much between you and Yondu that I missed back then. I would like to hear it now.”

“I told you everything,” Cirra said, leaning carefully away so that none of Aleta’s food would get on her.

“The events, maybe. You didn’t like to talk about your feelings back then. I heard Yondu’s side of things, but I never heard yours.”

Charlie snorted. “What didn’t we hear out of Yondu back then?”

Stakar shook his head and pointed his finger at Peter. “You shoulda heard your old man back then. He couldn’t shut up about her from the minute he could see straight enough to get a good look at her.”

“He was a lot more open with his emotions back then,” Cirra agreed. “Sentiment was hard for him to handle. There’s a lot I take responsibility for.”

“Spoilers!” Peter yelled, clapping his hands over his ears.

Cirra laughed. “Okay, okay, sorry. No spoilers. Where was I last night, Peter?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is backstory, and y'all, it's gonna be fucking long.
> 
> Chapter title is What It Takes by Aerosmith!


	6. Talk Dirty to Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The four F's, minus one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple of things, guys. I do apologize for the late update. This chapter got away from me a little bit; I didn't realize how much stuff needed to go in it! (And how much I would have to move around and cut out.)
> 
> There are a couple of other reasons that the update is late, namely regarding my health, both mentally and physically. I was sick for a couple of days, and in that time frame, I had a mild crisis. My dog was bitten by a rattlesnake, and there was nothing we could do for him. I didn't quite feel like writing for a few days, so I'm playing catch-up.
> 
> Last thing is that my update day is moving from Wednesdays to Saturdays. I'm moving the day because I'm preparing to start law school in the fall and it will be more convenient for me to update on weekends.
> 
> In any case, I hope you guys enjoy!

Yondu had finally reached the point where he was completely and utterly fed up with being confined to the medical bay. In the time that he had been stuck in there, he had continuously grown more and more restless, even agitated. He had never exactly been relaxed, but once he was able to walk off by himself without fear of throwing up or falling from the vertigo, the twitchiness he felt from his constricting situation became too much for him to bear. Thankfully for him, the time had come for him to be cleared to leave.

Cirra had entered Yondu’s room in the medical bay that morning prepared to do a full physical exam to assess his progress and determine whether or not he could be cleared. The physical exam would explain his current state of being to curious eyes; he was currently sitting on the edge of his hospital bed clad in just his skivvies (well,  _ that _ was because he refused to wear the hospital gowns anymore) while she checked him over thoroughly. She’d put him through all the motions: made him walk on his own, checked the giant healed gash on his head, and maneuvered his shoulder until she was absolutely sure that he had full range of motion.

Cirra pressed gently on Yondu’s shoulder. The deep hole in his skin from the plasma blast had closed up and left a nasty scar, but it wasn’t an open wound and it didn’t hurt anymore; he didn’t seem bothered by the scar. She moved his arm back and forth with slowly increasing speed and pressure. As far as she could tell, the muscle had fully mended, and while it was much weaker than it would have been otherwise, it had repaired itself and was ready to be built back up. 

She let go of his arm once she was satisfied. “I’d say you’re clear to leave the medical bay.”

“Fuckin’ finally!” he yelled, and hopped up off the bed. He swayed a little bit, but corrected himself more quickly than she’d ever seen him right himself before. He stretched as far as he comfortably could, joints cracking from mild disuse. “I thought I’d have to move in here permanently!”

Cirra had to admit that she was quite impressed by his progress. His body was all healed up, he could walk without shaking or swaying (for the most part), and his progress with his speech was beyond what she had expected in his current condition. 

In fact, Yondu’s grasp on the Common Tongue had become quite exemplary. Bas had put him through the ringer with his speech to prepare him to leave the medical bay, and it showed in that he could speak plainly and without much error. The only problem was, Yondu spoke like a backwoods Terran hick. (Cirra thought it was cute and Yondu knew it.)

“ _ Clear to leave _ does not mean  _ free to go _ , you know,” she replied, handing him the first part of his uniform. She wasn’t bothered by his lack of clothing, but she couldn’t say the same for the crew members in the hallway who would have to watch him walk out (most of which were invariably not attracted to him as she was). “You still have to come and see me for physical therapy during the week.”

“Darlin’, I’ll be coming by to visit all the time,” he said as he started pulling the undershirt of the blue jumpsuit over his head.

“You’ll have duties assigned to you, so I doubt you’ll be swinging by to chat. Maybe before curfew,” Cirra teased, “but you have your own room in the barracks instead of a monitored hospital room.”

“Or a cage.”

“That, too.” 

“I know I’ll be busy, but we all gotta take a break sometime. And now I can finally sleep in a bed where I can stretch out!” he exclaimed, stretching his arms out wide to make a point. “That ol’ hospital bed has been the devil to sleep on since ya stopped giving me that vertigo medicine.”

Cirra snorted. “If you think the beds in the barracks are going to be anything special, you’re going to be seriously disappointed.”

He groaned. “Aw, don’t kill my buzz like that, babygirl.”

Cirra was beginning to think that Stakar (or maybe even Aleta) was the one who told him to call her that. He had taken to calling her  _ babygirl _ and  _ darlin’ _ since he’d figured out those words and their connotation. The Kree did not have terms of endearment, so he’d had to actually work hard to flirt in Kree. Now, he just had to throw a word on the end of his sentence and she’d smile.

He continued on. “But least I can walk around the ship without supervision now!”

She rolled her eyes. “You could do that already, you just didn’t want to put on pants like I told you to.”

Yondu made a fart noise with his mouth. “Modesty ain’t that important. I don’t got nothing to hide, anyway!”

She had to wonder if he was always this disagreeable. “Then you are  _ really _ going to hate wearing the Stakar Ravager Clan uniform.”

“Yeah, I’ve seen it. A full jumpsuit’s not really my style.” He smiled slyly, jagged teeth glinting in the light. “Looks good on you, though.”

Cirra shook her head at him. “What have I told you about flirting?”

It didn’t matter if she minded the flirting or not, he was still her patient and she had rules against letting her patients flirt with her.

“Not to do it while I’m still your patient. But I’m not your patient anymore.”

“You’re my patient until you no longer need physical therapy to stay walking upright.”

He shrugged. “Well, I ain't got a problem waiting as long as ya don't get tired of me teasin’ you. Waiting’s kinda fun, anyway.”

Cirra tossed him the rest of his new uniform. “Alright, get your clothes on and stop giving me a hard time. The captain wants to see you up in command.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Yondu said, and winked at him.

She  _ knew _ it was Stakar who told him to call her  _ ma’am _ . What an unfortunate thing to like being called.

“Go!” she said, shooing him out the hospital door.

Cirra was extremely particular when it came to her patients flirting with her. Her position as a medic, particularly the chief medic, created a strange power dynamic that she wasn't comfortable having over them. She discouraged it on principle.

The problem with Yondu’s flirting (other than the fact that went against her rules) was that now he could do it in the Common Tongue where everyone could understand. And now that everyone else could understand him, she’d been getting shit from the rest of the team about how much he talked about her (good-naturedly, in most cases, but still embarrassing).

Hell, the rest of the team just egged it on. Stakar loved to clue Yondu in on little things that would make her ears heat up (like being called  _ ma’am _ ). Aleta had been grooming him with her likes and dislikes. She didn't need matchmakers (especially not  _ these _ matchmakers), and the more they egged it on, the harder Cirra tended to push away.

The other problem with the flirting was part of a common Waux fear, especially among free Waux (and with anyone really, Waux or not). Did the potential bedmate only see pretty skin and hair, maybe easy submission? Was it genuine longing and affection? Something sinister, like an agent seeking to recapture her? It was difficult to tell with some of the people who’d made passes at her, but Yondu seemed pretty clear about his intentions. 

He had made it abundantly clear to her that he was willing to wait until he wasn’t her patient anymore so that maybe they could get a little bit closer, and she could appreciate his patience and his persistence. She’d never felt affection, much less attraction, for anyone in this capacity, and she was relieved to find that it was well-received.

Cirra walked out behind Yondu and watched him head off to the control room. She snagged a trainee medic on her way past - a new recruit - and had him run off to find a mop and bucket to give Yondu’s room a good scrub-down. She couldn’t spend the rest of her shift daydreaming, no matter if she wanted to or not. She had other patients to tend to, not just the one who made her face heat up every time he opened his mouth.

* * *

 

“Wait, wait, wait,” Rocket said, waving his hands. “You  _ like _ being called  _ ma’am _ ?”

Cirra had not been the one to reveal that particular detail of the story; Stakar was the one who interjected with that little tidbit. 

“It’s a thing - not important to the story.”

“I was just thinking that women your age don’t usually-”

Peter clamped his hand over the raccoon’s mouth. “Shut up, dude.”

Cirra rolled her eyes at the little raccoon. “I get it, I’m old.” 

She caught Stakar giggling to himself out of the corner of her eye. “Don’t think this won’t come back to bite you in the ass.”

The old Ravager laughed. “Oh, I’m countin’ on it.”

Cirra narrowed her eyes at him. He was insufferable when he got like this. “Well, why don’t you tell them about the first time you took Yondu to Contraxia, then?”

“Uhh…”

“Remember, Aleta?”

Aleta nodded sagely. “I remember this. You broke two of the lovebots and got kicked out into the street by one of the mistresses.”

Cirra folded her arms. “And you don’t even have a good story to tell about it because you two were so drunk that you toppled them off the balcony completely by accident.”

“I do not recall…”

“Of course you don’t, you were drunk.”

“...can you just tell them about the Kree raid?”

“I’ll get there. Anyway…”

* * *

 

Cirra had just finished her shift in the medical bay when Aleta popped into her office. Aleta had been trying to squeeze in any spare moment that she could with Cirra, even if it was just walking with her to dinner. As a Ravager captain with her own ship, she couldn't exactly stay on the Reaver forever. She had to go back to her own ship eventually, and she only had a few weeks left before she would leave to go back to her crew. To capitalize on the dwindling time, breakfast, lunch, and dinner were almost mandatory times spent together. Aleta even slept in Cirra’s room some nights.

Aleta waited patiently for Cirra to finish up her patient charts. She’d been behind on things in the med bay for days, mostly because she’d been trying to ready the team for future Kree raids. Aleta held the door open for Cirra while she gathered up her things. 

“So, you released Yondu this morning?” she asked as Cirra fished out her key card to lock the office door behind them. “He’s been up in command with us all day. Seems to be in a better mood now.”

“I did,” Cirra replied. “He’s now clear for combat training as long as he does physical therapy with me at least twice a week.”

“Wonderful! I am eager to see his effectiveness in battle.”

“I’m sure he’ll do well.”

They headed down to the cafeteria for dinner where the rest of the chief officers had already congregated.

The average Ravager cafeteria tended to be about as disreputable as the average Ravagar bar, but Stakar had made a point to keep the cafeteria on the Reaver relatively clean. He had squadrons of crew members (the ones who’d been dicks that day) continuously cleaning and picking up the messes on and between the cramped, crew-laden tables. Of course, being Ravagers, the messes were large and decidedly gross, and they made them on purpose to agitate the crew members who’d been unlucky enough to land mess hall duty.

They picked up their rations (something gelatinous and purple wrapped in foil) from the line and headed towards the captain’s table. The table was currently occupied by the Starship Reaver’s host of chief officers with Stakar at the helm. Aleta took her seat at on his right; Cirra slid into the next seat along Aleta’s unoccupied side.

Stakar was almost finished with his rations. Chucks of lavender jelly flecked the empty foil packet and the prongs of his fork, and almost seemed to have a life of their own the way they jiggled with the vibrations of the table. He’d pushed the foil off to the side and had begun to work out a plan for the Kree raid while all of his team were gathered in one spot. 

While Stakar was in the midst of talking, Yondu walked by with his food packet and scanned the room for somewhere to sit. The Centaurian had been introduced to a fair portion of the crew already just from wandering around the ship with Stakar. At this point, he was just looking for some free space to sit, of which there was only a miniscule amount. 

Stakar caught sight of him and waved him over. “Udonta!”

Yondu saluted with the customary chest thump when he approached. “Yes, sir?”

“Have a seat, my man. Doesn't seem fitting to talk about the Kree raids without the entire team in attendance.”

The newly freed Centaurian grinned. “‘Preciate it, Capt’n.”

He settled down into the seat across from Cirra and pulled apart the pieces of his rations while Stakar went back to talking. 

“As I was saying, it looks like Mainframe has pinpointed the Kree ship’s location to somewhere on Sandakar.”

“Oh, great, a desert wasteland with three suns,” Cirra said, wrinkling her nose. 

“Were you expecting somewhere pleasant?” Charlie asked.

Stakar shushed them. “We’re working on finding a route into their ship without blowing our cover like last time. The Nova Corp wasn’t too pleased when they heard we only got two of their battle slaves out.”

Charlie snorted. “I wouldn’t be either with the amount of money they’re paying out.”

“Right,” Martinex corroborated, while Krugarr made a thumbs-up with his magical floating hands. He hadn’t touched any of his food, and didn’t seem to be a fan of what was in the ration tin.

Stakar pressed his fist against his chin and leaned back in his seat, elbow on the armrest. He regarded his team coolly before continuing on. “We’re gonna blow up the whole ship this time.”

“Do you plan on getting the slaves out first?” Aleta said, with her eyebrow raised.

“Mainframe said we might have a ringer on board. If not, we’ll go in, distract the handlers, get the slaves out, and activate their ship core’s detonation sequence from a distance. The tracker emits a signal that irradiates the core when triggered.”

Martinex looked at him in disbelief the whole time he was talking, probably because his plan was, well, a little insane.

“Ya don’t have to do that.”

The whole table turned to stare at Yondu who, up until that moment, had been completely silent. He’d finished his rations and had been simply listening to Stakar, distracted by nothing.

Yondu tipped his head to the side as he often did when asked to look at one point for too long. “Not the ship part, I’m all for blowin’ it up. I meant ya don’t need a ringer to smuggle the slaves out. All ya need is a distraction.”

“Elaborate.”

“Every Kree battle ship has a port that leads directly out from the slave cages in the belly of the ship. Makes it easier to smuggle captives on, or send the slaves out at a moment’s notice. Have someone distract the handlers, press the button, and set ‘em free. Then blow it up, preferably with the handlers still on board.”

Stakar grinned. “I like that idea. We’re gonna talk about this some more. We’ll have a meeting tomorrow in the control room after training when we’ve got Mainframe with us.”

“Do you want us all at training?” Cirra asked. 

“Everyone in attendance, no exceptions.”

Cirra turned to Yondu. “That means you need to be down in the training facility early for physical therapy.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied with a grin.

Cirra glared at Stakar, whose grin, if possible, widened further. “Are we done here?”

“We’re done,” Stakar said. “And if you’d be so kind, Cirra, show Yondu to his new room if he’s finished with his dinner.”

“As you wish, Captain,” she said, gritting her teeth. She glanced over at Aleta. “I’ll be stopping by tonight.”

“I’ll leave the door open.”

Yondu stood up, balling up the tin from him rations. “Ready when you are, darlin’.”

Cirra stood and beckoned him to follow her, leaving the chief officers at the table each with shit-eating grins on their faces.

Yondu walked next to her, almost  shoulder to shoulder but carefully spaced so that they weren’t actually touching. Flirting, he had made minimal effort to stop, but he’d been particularly careful about keeping his hands to himself. Usually, she was the one touching him, though only on a clinical basis.

His room was down in the crew barracks a few floors below the chief officer floors, but Cirra suspected that once he proved himself with the Kree raid, he’d be moving up to the chief officer floor. It was small, like all of the crewman rooms, and sandwiched in between two other rooms like every other door on the hall.

She stopped at his door. “Here we are.”

He jiggled the handle and found the door had already been unlocked. He pushed the door so that it swung open to reveal a tiny room with a bed and not much else. Leaning against the threshold, he surveyed the tiny room.

“I’d invite ya in for the night, but I got a feeling you’d turn me down,” Yondu said, only half-teasing.

“And you’d be right about that,” Cirra remarked, “but thank you for the invite.”

“Like I said earlier, I don’t mind waitin’ on ya.”

“You’re going to be waiting a while since you’re still my patient.”

Yondu walked in and sat down on the bed. The coverlet was blue, just like all of the utilitarian bedding on board the ship. It would be a while before his room would start to look like everyone else’s (homey, vaguely dingy yet clean on the surface, and with a weird smell that no one could ever explain as anything but their own scent). He fingered the material, noting that it was cheap but worn down into softness.

He looked up at her with those red eyes. “Ya know, I can tone down the flirting if it’s making ya uncomfortable?”

She shrugged; she still stood out in the hallway, carefully outside of the threshold. “Well, I did ask you not to flirt with me while you’re still my patient.”

“Point taken.”

Staying the night was tempting, and yet she knew well enough not to set foot in that room. His blue tone of his skin contrasted oddly with the navy shade of his jumpsuit. She would be far too inclined to peel the jumpsuit off of him and contrast his skin with the tone of the sheets, and that was something she still had far too many reservations about.

“Yondu… Don’t think this is something I’m not interested in.”

“I know yer interested, babygirl,” he said. “Yer face turns a real pretty color every time I tease ya, especially when I call ya  _ ma’am _ .”

“Stakar told you to call me that, didn’t he?”

He grinned, the pointed edges of his jagged teeth peeking just over his bottom lip. “Aleta, actually.”

“I’m gonna kill her.”

“Lemme thank her first.”

She huffed and stuck her finger out at him. “No more flirting, not until I clear you. And not until I get my head in the right place.”

“How about this: when yer ready, you come to me. I’m only too happy to wait for ya to say ya want me.”

“Oh, I think I’ll have a few more things to say to you than just that by then.”

That made him laugh. “‘Night, darlin’.”

Cirra bade him goodnight and headed up the few floors that separated his room from hers. 

Instead of heading into her own room, she all but broke down the door leading into Aleta’s room. Inside, she found Aleta and Stakar lounging on the bed (which was quite rare; they didn't actually share a room). They’d left the data display on the wall on while they relaxed; it showed some Kree program that included a lot of blood and guts oozing across the screen

“Move over,” Cirra snapped, waving Stakar over so that she could squeeze between them. He gave a disgruntled snort, but budged over anyway.

Cirra inserted herself snuggly between them on the huge bed. Only chief officers got to have the big beds, and Aleta’s was roomy enough to fit the three of them plus one more person if they were so inclined. She cuddled up against Aleta’s side; Stakar draped his arm across the both of them.

“I’m gonna need you two to stop trying to play matchmaker,” Cirra said. “Yondu is already well aware that I’m interested.”

“The intention is not to play matchmaker,” Aleta said, reaching up to tangle her fingers in Cirra’s short hair. She’d had to cut off most of it after it had been burned by the Kree soldier’s gun blast that had come far too close to her head. 

“The intention is to get you to just stop worrying about the doctor/patient thing. We’re Ravagers; it’s not like it’s in the code that you can’t bang your patients,” Stakar said without taking his eyes off the data display.

“I know it’s not in the code, but it’s weird. It’s a power thing, and I’m not comfortable with that.”

“We know,” Aleta said, dragging her nails across Cirra’s scalp. Chill bumps ran down her spine, and she leaned into the touch. “But we also think it’s cute when he teases you.”

“Teasing me is what’s driving me crazy.”

“Driving you crazy as in…?”

“The worst sexual frustration I’ve ever experienced while simultaneously still being terrified at the idea of actually trying to have enjoyable sex with someone.”

“I know it’s hard not to be nervous about this,” Aleta replied. “What your handler did to you was awful, but Yondu is not your handler. He’s not pushing you to do anything you’re not comfortable with.”

“I realize this. I wouldn’t be interested in him if he was.”

“Then you know he wants to make you feel good, as well as himself.”

Cirra sighed. “Yes, yes.”

“Is there anything we can do to help ease the anxiety? I could try that massage again if you want?”

“...Maybe tomorrow.”

“Or in the morning?”

“As long as you don’t wake me up early.”

* * *

 

Cirra had purposefully left out the sexy stuff and boiled it all down to the fact that she simply wasn’t comfortable pursuing an initial relationship based on a doctor/patient dynamic. This was mostly just a suspenseful interlude before the Kree raid meant to completely infuriate her impatient (mildly bloodthirsty) audience, but this was her own way of gaining amusement from them.

Of all the people packed into the control room, it was Drax and Mantis who were the most enamored with her story at this point. Drax was simply buzzing with the thrill of the carnage that the Kree raid promised to be (he would not be disappointed). Mantis, on the other hand, was fascinated by the emotions. She’d already asked to hold Cirra’s hand while she told her story, though Cirra declined. Perhaps later, she told the girl.

* * *

 

If Yondu had been grumpy when Cirra was stabbing him with needles every day, he was an absolute terror during physical therapy. He groused and grumbled every time she made him make a sudden movement. His joints protested every action, and his muscles screamed at him every time he so much as twitched an errant finger. By the time they were done, he was ready to skip training and go straight to bed.

She’d finally let him sit down and relax, though. His muscles ached like he’d been shocked by a blaster a good few times. 

“Just be honest with me here: are you tryin’ ta kill me?” he asked after failing to catch the water bottle she threw at him. His shoulder screamed with the sudden movement. 

Cirra laughed and sat down next to him. “No, but Aleta might. She’s in charge of training today, and her routines are hellish.”

“Can't wait to see  _ you _ out there workin’ hard.”

“For revenge or for personal reasons?”

“Lil’ bit of both.”

She finished off her water and set the bottle off out of sight. “Then you’ll  _ really  _ enjoy Aleta’s workout. I’m just the medic, so I’ll be struggling.”

“Nah, ya look like you can hold yer own,” Yondu said, looking her up and down. As if he really needed to.

“Appearances can be deceiving.”

He laughed, then chugged his water. Once he was finished, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and tossed his bottle off somewhere. “I’m already starting to miss playing 20 Questions with ya everyday.”

“You’ll have plenty more opportunities to ask me a thousand questions.”

“Kinda like now?”

She nodded. “Kind of like now.”

He gestured towards the thick bands of leather straps on her wrist, in particular, a link of blue Aaskvarian steel. “What are these?”

“I make bracelets out of trinkets. Most Waux do. Sometimes I give them away. Aleta and Stakar both have one.”

“Why’s that?”

“They freed me from service.”

“So… ya mentioned the intricacies of Enugan society the other day.”

“I did.”

“What’s an attendant, if I may ask?”

“That… could take a while to explain.”

He looked around at the empty gym. “I think we got some time.”

“Attendants in Enugan society are exclusively Waux children. They’ve been enslaving us for centuries, to the point where there are only a few small groups of us left who are free.”

“Why just children? Seems a little inconvenient.”

“For this reason: the consciousness of every Waux who has ever lived is stored in our unconscious in a place that we call the Vault, which only children are able to access. This means that our children have the capability to learn anything, which is why the Enugan who enslave us place huge emphasis on our education. They are quite dissociated with their diplomacy, so their nobility and important figures use us to do all their dirty work. It also helps that kids are cute and non-threatening, which tends to make diplomats more likely to acquiesce to any demands we give. Once we reach a certain developmental point, we can’t access the Vault anymore and we’re given as gifts to allies; particularly the Kree, but sometimes to others.

“You can imagine the value in being able to access every single memory or bit of information at the drop of a hat. They take us from our parents before we reach the age of five. Usually before then, you can tell how adept the child is at reaching the Vault. I was given to the Crown Prince of the Enugan State of Affairs after I was captured in part because I could go so deep into the Vault that sometimes it was almost impossible to bring me back, and in part because I was a child with atypical features. I was a female child with gray eyes, which is quite unusual since only males have gray eyes, so I was given high status as a servant.”

“So how do our captains play into this?”

“I tricked them into setting me free.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You tricked them?”

“They came to meet with my handler to discuss their payment for taking me to my new master. I captured their payment before it could clear because I had memorized all of the finances of the house and bargained with them to distract the prince and his son. While my handler was distracted, I broke my chain and slit his son’s throat. I left the prince alive since he was terminally ill; best to let him suffer.”

“That’s quite a story there, miss ma’am.”

She shrugged. “Same as yours, I’d guess.”

“Essentially. Parents sold me to the Kree ‘cause they didn't want no more kids; the Kree kept me in a cage ‘till they needed me to fight in their wars or for their amusement.”

“There are many different kinds of cages to be kept in, but for us, no longer.”

He leaned in close, until there were hardly more than a few inches separating them. “We’re fuckin’ Ravagers, and we do what we want!”

She could have kissed him then, and perhaps he half-expected her to, but the door of the training room blew open and slammed against the door. 

Aleta marched through, followed by Stakar and the rest of his team.

“Everyone on their feet, in position! We’re gonna run first, then we’re gonna work on hand-to-hand, and finally target practice! Let’s go!”

* * *

 

Cirra stopped to take a drink of the beer she’d just cracked open. Her voice was starting to crackle with phlegm, and the beer probably wouldn’t help the situation. It would almost be worth saving her voice to let Stakar or Aleta regale them with tales of the Kree raid. They had been in the midst of the action, anyway; it’d be more interesting coming from them.

“I had no idea my training routines inspired such terror,” Aleta remarked, tilting her head. The muscles in her neck corded with the movement.

“I broke my arm during hand-to-hand training once,” Martinex remarked in his rasping voice. He flexed his arm as if still plagued by a phantom pain. “You told me to walk it off.”

“I still can't do an overhead press without crying,” Cirra said. She’d cracked her head with the barbells one too many times.

“My, my, we’ll have to work on that, then.”

“Can we get to this Kree raid you keep talking about? All the relationship stuff is giving me hives,” Rocket snapped.

“I, too, would like to hear your tales of battle,” Drax conceded.

Cirra stretched. The joints in her shoulders cracked. “I’m going to let you handle this, Stakar. You were in the middle of the action.”

“Sounds good to me.”

* * *

 

The plan was as simple as a Ravager plan could be: get in, get the mark, get out, blow it up. No critical thinking required, and indeed, critical thinking was taboo and discouraged. Brute force was the question in this situation, and Stakar’s crew had all the answers.

And yet, even plans with such simple objectives as  _ fuck shit up _ required a few substeps:

Stakar had split them into two teams led by Aleta and himself, respectively. One, his team, would serve as the distraction that would hopefully get all the handlers running to them. Two, Aleta’s team, would make sure the port in the holding cages was open, and that all the cages would unlock themselves at the appropriate time. From there, Stakar’s team would trap the slave handlers somewhere very far away where they couldn’t possibly get back to the holding cells. Once the Ravagers were all clear, Mainframe would trigger the tracer to detonate and the whole ship would go up in flames.

No matter how simple the plan seems, nothing ever seems to go _ quite _ the way it’s supposed to. For example, a successful plan doesn’t usually include calling the medical officer ten minutes into the mission. Nor does a successful plan usually include getting the biometric key to the escape port by picking through handlers one by one and cutting off their thumbs.

In any case, the important events were still going according to plan, just with those few relatively minor adjustments.

Presently, Stakar was firing his blaster down a long hallway filled with slave handlers. He’d sequestered himself and his team inside of a room that was far too small for himself, Martinex, Charlie, and Cirra; they were packed in like sardines in a can. To make matters worse, the whole room smelled like blood and burnt flesh.

Cirra was hunched down behind a towering section of metal crates inside of the tiny room with Martinex’s blood splashed down the front of her jumpsuit. She’d been forced to drag his unconscious form behind the stack of crates when the handlers had cornered them in the hall. His wounds weren’t terribly serious - just a couple of blaster burns on his arms - but they were bleeding, and he couldn’t hold his blaster up long enough to shoot anything. She was being covered by Charlie, who was large enough to draw fire away from her and skilled enough not to get hit by a single plasma blast. 

Stakar kept popping his head around the corner and firing off a few bursts before another volley of shots buzzed down the hallway at his head. Sweat rolled down his face and into his eyes; the burn from the salty sweat was made worse by the bloody smell in the room.

Cirra had propped up a data pad against the metal crates and was watching Aleta’s team sneak down around the slave cages while she tended to Martinex’s wounds. Mainframe was providing them with a constant feed and line of communication so that they would know when to stop being a distraction and to really raise a little hell.

“How’s it looking back there, Cirra?” Stakar called from the door. He ducked down so that Charlie could pop his head out and fire a few shots. The screaming denoted his shots had found their mark, and several marks at that.

“He’ll be able to walk it off when he wakes up. He just hit his head when he fell.”

“Any idea when he’ll wake up?”

“I’m not psychic, captain. Shouldn't be long, though.”

Stakar popped around the corner again. “Page Aleta for me, then! Put it on speaker!”

Cirra touched the section of the screen that patched her through to Aleta.

Aleta’s voice came through soft, almost whispery. “Hello, dear.”

“What’s your status?”

“Well, we found the right thumb finally, and we’ve got the first section of cages open. Can you give us another twenty minutes?”

“We’ll start making our way down to you. Should take us about that long.”

“Affirmative.”

The line of communication terminated just as Martinex came to. Cirra helped him sit up as he came to. He groaned and held his head in his hands once he was in a sitting position.

“What happened to me?”

“Your arm is partially melted and you hit your head. Now hold onto me and let me pull you up so we can go. Get your blaster.”

Martinex held his injured arm flush against his side and hefted his blaster in his free hand as he readied himself to leave. “Let’s go.”

Stakar peeked around and saw that the hall, presently, was empty. He waved Charlie forward, then Martinex after him, followed by Cirra and then himself. “Charlie - cover Marty. I’ll cover Cirra.”

On Stakar’s cue, Charlie took off down the hall, guns blazing. The Kree soldiers never stood a chance. 

The soldiers who got too close were immediately brought down by Charlie’s enormous fists on top of their heads, while the ones who hung in the back with their guns drawn were picked off one by one by plasma blasts. Even shooting with his non-dominant hand, Martinex was a perfect shot, and Cirra could hold her own as well. They charged on once the hall was cleared of Kree soldiers. The display on Cirra’s data pad directed their path, and anyone they saw caught a plasma blast in the chest. 

Mainframe had used the tracer as an anchor to worm their way into the security protocol on board the Kree ship, and it was a simple matter for them to close off all the doors and trap any straggling Kree soldiers in their way. The android directed them down towards the belly of the ship where the slaves were being held, and where Aleta and her team were waiting for them.

The door was open when they arrived at the underbelly of the ship, and upon entering the slave enclosure, they found the product of Aleta’s handiwork.

The bodies of several handlers, some dead, some not, littered the walkway between the empty, open cages. All of the handlers were missing their thumbs. It must have taken Aleta quite a while to figure out which one was the biometric key to the outside.

As they drew closer to the port that would take them back out onto the blistering desert of Sandakar, they saw the freed battalion and Aleta’s team standing next to the enormous portal. Yondu stood in the middle of all of them, translating between Aleta and several of the battle slaves who were asking questions.

Aleta caught sight of the four of them and waved them into the center of the crowd. She held up a severed thumb, still wet-looking with crusty navy-black blood.

“It took a while, this one matches the biometrics,” she explained.

Cirra was still holding up Martinex by the armpit. It was hot, and he was sticky and dizzy. They needed to get back to the Reaver as soon as possible. And it wasn’t just Martinex who needed more comprehensive medical attention; several of the slaves obviously needed to be looked at.

She told Aleta as much. “Let’s go ahead and get out of here before any of the soldiers get here. Mainframe is ready to pick us up on the other side of that sand dune.”

“Agreed,”

Aleta held the severed thumb up to the biometric screen and held her breath as the data pad scanned it. The little red light on the console flashed and turned green, and the ship began to groan and grumble as the doors came down. A hot gust of wind blew through the opening in the door, revealing the blistering, sandy landscape just outside.

As the stairs unfolded out onto the sand, Stakar stepped outside and waved the group to follow him. “Head towards the dune!”

Yet, plans never seem to go  _ exactly _ as well as one would hope, and this one was no exception. The rest of the Kree soldiers on the ship appeared at the opposite door, the one that Stakar and his team had just entered through, and they were  _ extremely _ unhappy with the death toll on their ship, and the fact that it did not yet include a Ravager casualty.

“Run for the dune!” Charlie yelled. He reached over and snatched Martinex up off his feet, slinging the injured first mate over his shoulder.

The Ravagers scattered behind the cages close to them as Stakar led the freed slaves out into the Sandakar desert. Charlie fired first, scattering the Kree soldier en masse. He took Martinex and made a break for the door, narrowly avoiding a blast that would have definitely severed his arm. 

Bas was next. He fired his blaster, landing hits on three of the Kree soldiers. They all went down and remained motionless, so he made a break for the outside. By the time Cirra looked back, he’d disappeared into the sands after Charlie.

Krugarr had fled with Stakar, which left Cirra, Aleta, and Yondu on the ship. Aleta snagged them both by the arm and hauled them towards the exit, shoving them out onto the sand. She yelled into the data pad for Mainframe to set the ship to detonate and took off after Stakar.

Shots from the Kree soldiers struck the sand around them in a halo. The Kree soldiers wore enough armour to slow them down ,but they were still pouring out onto the sand in clumps. They didn’t make it far past the edge of the staircase before the enormous ship exploded.

As the final shots rained down, the soldiers who were too close to the explosion were engulfed in flame. Finally, one of the shots managed to hit it’s target.

Cirra’s back was on fire, but she couldn’t stop to check herself out. The plasma blast had come from too far away to kill her on impact, but it was fucking  _ burning _ her skin. Blood dripped down her back and into her underwear. Her skin prickled hot and cold at the same time from exposure to the blinding sunlight. Her vision swam, and it seemed like Aleta and Yondu were getting farther away from her.

Her vision went black and her cheek was quite suddenly scraping against hot sand granules, the gritty texture falling into her mouth. She could feels hands on her arms hauling her up, could feel hands grasping at her legs to carry her, but could not open her eyes long enough to see what was happening. She knew Yondu was yelling and she could hear Aleta murmuring in her ear, but she couldn’t make out the words.

They charged onto the intake dock carrying Cirra between them. They didn’t stop to explain, but kept on charging down to the medical bay. Stakar followed close behind them as soon as he realized what was going on. He ordered Charlie to see to the freed battle slaves, then disappeared down into the bowels of the Reaver.

* * *

 

Peter sat back in his chair. “Wow.”

Cirra nodded. “Yeah, that’s what the scar on my back is from.”

There was a deep silence, and finally Gamora spoke.

“This isn’t just storytime with the team, is it? You’ve all been waiting to talk about something.”

Stakar inclined his head in her direction. “We have.”

Gamora had long since figured out there was a deeper meaning to this meeting than just a relaxing night before the mission. “For the record, Tarp offered us the bounty on your head, but we turned him down. The Celestial Torso will net us far more units than your bounty.”

“And I believe you, but I’m not entertaining the possibility of you all being bounty hunters,” Stakar replied. There was no raucous twinkle in his eye; it had disappeared as soon as Gamora spoke. “We’re looking for something.”

“And you think we might know where it is?”

Stakar shook his head. “No, we already know where it is, but we think it may fall within your interests to help us go and get it.”

“Is it in the Celestial Torso?” Rocket asked. He held Groot’s tiny form in his lap; the little tree-man stared at them all wide-eyes, fascinated by the story they had been telling.

“Not exactly.”

“You’re looking for the Gardener’s planet, aren’t you?” Gamora asked. “That’s why you mounted an expedition to the Seyfert Galaxy.”

“You are correct.”

Peter was confused. “Wait, who’s the Gardener? And why do you want to find him?”

Mantis was the one to answer his question. “The Gardener is a celestial being of enormous power who, long ago, was entrusted with the Time Gem. He lives on his overgrown world sequestered away from the universe, tending his garden planet and generally being a bit of an old hermit. They intend on stealing the Time Gem from him and going back in time to save Yondu.”

Cirra nodded. “Spot on.”

Peter jumped up. “Then hell yes! We’re in!”

Yet Gamora was incredulous. “You do know that Thanos is looking for that? He’s looking for all of the Infinity Stones.”

Cirra leaned forward in her chair, her gaze centered on the former assassin. “I am not afraid of the Mad Titan. He and his kind are part of the reason why my species has been enslaved for hundreds of years, and he is directly responsible for my capture as a child. I may die, but I would welcome the sight of Thanos so that I could at least fire a blaster at his face.”

Drax stood up. “I will follow you gladly into battle.”

Peter nodded. “I mean, we get a little bored when we don’t have a bunch of bad guys on our trail. We’re in.”

“Then welcome to the Ravagers.” Stakar held out his hand for Peter to shake. “We’re making the jump out to the Celestial Torso tomorrow, since we still have to get the spinal fluid for your pavement later, but we’ll head out to M-77 once we extract enough to net us a good, solid profit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is the main storyline! It's gonna be a real doozy.
> 
> Chapter title is Talk Dirty to Me by Poison!


	7. Alone Too Long

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Body shots and lots of crying (the average Saturday night for a Ravager).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're truckin' along, y'all! This is the halfway point!

Cirra slept fitfully at best that night. She was grateful for even the barest amount of sleep considering how hard they’d be working in the Celestial Torso in the morning, but she wasn’t quite as grateful for all the dreams she’d been having. They were so vivid, so tangible, that they had begun to seriously impede her ability to get a good night’s rest.

It had been years since she’d dreamt as vividly as she had been dreaming on the Reaver; in fact, she hadn’t dreamt at all since she’d lived on Sandakar. Now that she was back on the ship, a steady stream of memories permeated her dreams every night, some good, some bad, yet all were things that she’d been repressing for years. She supposed that being back in such a viciously familiar environment was dredging up all the forgotten bits and pieces of her past that she’d worked to leave behind.

Of all the memories slipping into her dreams, the years of captaining her own ship were the most prominently featured, from her old crew to all the times when Stakar and Aleta and the rest of the team visited, even the periods of time that Yondu would stay on her ship. She wasn’t a captain for long, but her memories from that time were eventful.

Her final days as an official Ravager tended to bleed into her early days of opening the bar; most of those dreams were of the nights when Yondu brought his own crew to Sandakar. Those had been good nights, back when Yondu’s crew was disreputable but not entirely despicable. He would bring them all to Sandakar and pack them into her bar, and she’d leave her bartenders in charge so they could spend time to themselves.  _ Time to themselves _ usually meant a fevered quickie in her office before they went back out into the bar to outdrink the crew, but it was the best kind of quality time where Ravagers were concerned.

The best memories that bled into her dreams were the ones where she and Yondu weren't talking, where it was just hands and teeth and skin on skin. His jagged teeth had left marks deep enough to scar because he was never careful or gentle; those marks were now pinpricks on her shoulders and in the soft inner flesh of her thighs and on her wrists. To her own credit, she’d left enough scratches down his back and chest to probably give him some pretty unmistakable memories of his own.

Yes, the silent dreams were preferred. The dreams where they talked were the ones that hurt. Those, she tried adamantly to wake up from.

Unfortunately, the talking dreams had been the main feature of her restless sleep that night (and most nights). Bits and pieces of conversations from the Reaver, snippets of their conversations in her office at the bar. The day where she’d told him that enough was enough, she wouldn’t cover for him anymore. The letter he’d left her that Peter had brought, and his lifeless body on that cold table.

She was shaken awake by Aleta’s groggy voice in her ear. “Wake up, Cirra.”

“Huh?” she asked, sitting up on her side. The tip of her nose tickled; she swiped at it, and her hand came away wet.

The room was lit by the dimmest of nightlights, throwing the whole space into a twilight zone. The sheets balled up in her hands were purple, not green like the ones on her own bed, and smelled like lavender. She hadn’t left Aleta’s room that night. Instead, she’d fallen asleep curled up into Aleta’s side, smushed between her and Stakar. Stakar had left at some point; he didn’t like sleeping in the same bed as someone else (never had).

Aleta wrapped her arm around Cirra’s waist and pulled her close. “You were making that whimpering noise again.”

Cirra settled back into her pillow, her cheek squishing comfortably against the fabric. “Sorry.”

“Go back to sleep and try to dream of something pleasant.”

* * *

 

The Celestial Torso was, as one would expect, the rotting chest and midsection of a giant, long-dead celestial being. It had been determined upon discovery that it was the midsection of the severed head of Knowhere, but as of yet, the legs and arms had yet to be found. The Torso was filled with all sorts of valuable things like organic matter and minerals, and all sorts of less valuable, dangerous things protecting the valuable things like squatters and soldiers.

As with the brains and other fun things inside of Knowhere, the organic matter within the Torso was the most valuable resource that could be mined, particularly the spinal fluid. Celestial spinal fluid was reputed for its healing properties and could be auctioned off at astronomical prices. It was also exceedingly dangerous to hunt for due to the aforementioned squatters and soldiers.

Mainframe had located a particularly illustrious vein of spinal fluid down in the Upper Torso that could be tapped and that wasn’t exceedingly difficult to get to. The plan was to enter in through the open neck of the torso and head downwards through the ribcage. If there were any other organic parts that could harvested (pieces of the heart or crystallized capillaries), they’d just pick those up along the way. Once they were done in the Torso, they’d hightail it out and find somewhere to rest for a couple of days before booking it across the quadrant. 

It wouldn’t be that easy, of course. The Torso wasn’t the same kind of organized chaos that inhabited Knowhere, which was delinquent but not truly lawless. This was a derelict, rotting organic cave lousy with outlaws and people who would shiv you as soon as look at you. The squatters didn’t like anyone encroaching on their territory, and the Vyrae soldiers were there to harvest anything and  _ everything _ of value, including intruders.

Of course, Ravagers were a lot scarier than anything else in the Torso, so the team wasn’t exactly terrified of what they would find in there.

The whole team, both the Ravagers and the Guardians, was suited up and ready to go. They huddled together in one of the Reaver’s smaller inner ships, each cleaning some kind of instrument or weapon of death and destruction. They had their guns and knives, some visible, some not, and other fun dangerous things (grenades, a favorite of Cirra’s).

“Let’s get this show on the road,” Stakar said as he took a seat in his captain’s chair. “Mainframe, get us to the Torso.”

The ship lifted smoothly off of the docking bay floor and hovered a few seconds before drifting lazily to the docking bay entrance. The huge doors parted, revealing a vast expanse of black space, and in the distance, the shape of the Torso. It almost seemed to glow in the light from the distant sun, purplish and glimmering faintly with green rot.

No one had said much, mostly because they were about to enter a veritable warzone. They hadn’t seen any ominous ships since they’d made the jump, but a gunfight could pop off out here without warning. There could be cloaked ships hovering around, ready to fire on them and board.

They drifted through the hole in the decaying neck of the Torso and were greeted by a cavernous expanse of blistering esophagus and muscle tissue. Sections of vertebrae from the neck peeked through gaps in the muscular ceiling. Cords of nerves ung from the muscles, yellow and orange and sparking with neurons that had nowhere to go.

“This is all… very gross,” Mantis said, staring intently out the window. Her nose wrinkled.

“Just wait until we have to actually go out there,” Peter said. He looked as if he’d rather peel his own fingernails off.

Gamora smirked. “No, just wait until we get caught by Uameth squatters. Or Vyrae soldiers.”

“Hopefully, that won’t be a problem,” Stakar said. “Mainframe is scanning for heat signatures. We might be able to avoid them.”

“When has our luck ever been  _ that _ good?” Cirra asked.

None of them were particularly looking forward to stomping around in organic matter, but things could be worse. If any squatters or soldiers showed up, it would get a lot messier. All those blaster burns in the muscle tissue - there’d be fluid spraying everywhere.

Mainframe had been guiding the tiny craft along the general route of the spinal vertebrae, and they were finally nearing the start of the exposed spinal cord. The ship drifted close to the ceiling. The vein of spinal fluid wasn’t much farther in than the third or fourth thoracic vertebrae, and they were getting close.

Cirra peered out of the window. Down near the bottom edge of the esophagus, she could spot tiny constructions that looked like shelters made of harvested bone. More likely than not, it was a camp housing a group of squatters who hunted for valuable organic matter in the Torso. No one threatening, but no one they wanted to mess with either.

“Mainframe?”

The android beeped. “Yes, Cirra?”

“Are you getting any heat signatures down there? It looks like a Uameth camp.”

“Nothing of significance. It’s completely cold.”

Cirra squashed down the feeling of cold dread in the pit of her stomach. “Are you sure?”

“Positive. Nothing on my screen.”

Squatters wouldn’t have cloaking technology, not out here in the Torso. That was serious tech that usually only came from ships or serious encampments, nothing a bunch of squatters should have. The feeling didn’t go away, but Cirra didn’t say anything else. 

“We’ve reached the vein that my sensors picked up earlier yesterday,” Mainframe said, spinning around in their chair. The droid had attached their head to a working body, which Cirra had only seen a handful of times. They must have been preparing for something serious or maybe anticipating the rest of the team might need an extra hand extracting the spinal fluid.

Mainframe docked the ship next to the third thoracic vertebrae and set it to hover motionlessly next to the outcropping of bone.

“Everyone got their equipment?” Charlie asked, hefting his bag. He had them crowd around the exit so that they would be ready when the port opened.

Charlie had them all line up side by side before sending each of them out one at a time to latch onto the wall of muscle tissue. Everyone’s pack contained line equipment that would keep them tethered to the wall so that they didn’t have to expend energy from their jetpacks unless it was an absolute necessity. The plan was to tether themselves to sections of muscle all down the spine, then bore holes in the bone until they reached the cushioning fluid, known around the galaxy as liquid money. They had plenty of bottles to catch the fluid in, and each bottle full of spinal fluid could be worth millions to the right buyer.

Cirra tugged the jetpack harness over her chest, hefted her med bag and the bag for spinal fluid specimens over her shoulder, and stepped out into the air.

There was brief weightlessness and the rush of falling, then the thrusters on the jetpack propelled her up into the air. She drifted away from the ship, and once she’d reached a suitable distance to collect specimens, she hovered next to the exposed tube of bone and stabbed the anchors on her line into the muscle tissue. The muscle squelched as it took the anchors, but the tissue contracted and held the metal hooks in place. She ran the line out, then switched the jetpack off.

Thankfully, the lines held well, and she was able to rappel down the expanse of tissue and bone to a section of spine that was almost transparently thin. She pulled out her boot knife and a bottle, flipped the knife so that the pommel faced outwards, and smashed it against the bone.

The bone shattered, and a viscous purple liquid leaked out into the air. She held the lip of the bottle under the open area, then stoppered it once it was filled up. She held the bottle up to the light from the ship and shook it, marvelling at the faintly glimmering magenta fluid.

Cirra had filled three bottles full of spinal fluid when the explosions began.

Mainframe’s voice blared out through her commlink, loud enough that the droid was basically screaming in her ear. “Vyrae soldiers! They were hiding in the squatter homes!”

She groaned. “I thought you said there were no heat signatures!”

“They must have been cloaked. Can you get back to the ship?”

Cirra packed the half-filled bottle in her hand into her pack. “Is anyone back yet?”

“Everyone except Mantis and Gamora. I think they wandered off too far.”

“They’ll have heard the explosions, but I’ll have to go and get them.”

Stakar’s voice crackled over the link. “Just come back to the ship, Cirra.”

“I’m the medic, Stakar. I can’t come back until everyone’s on board or they’re dead.”

Peter cut in on the commlink. “Gamora and Mantis went together. They can handle themselves, Cirra, just come back!”

“Something might be wrong. How about you keep the doors open and get us ready to go, and I’m gonna go find the rest of our team because that’s my job.”

“Make it quick!” Stakar snapped, and cut the communication.

Cirra activated her jetpack and severed the lines tethering her to the muscle wall. The ropes hung as lifelessly as two dead snakes, but she didn't have time to pull her anchors out.

She putted along the length of the exposed spine for quite some time without a single sign of either Mantis or Gamora. The explosions were getting closer, though. She made a point to urge her jetpack along as quickly as it would take her.

Cirra pressed the call button on her commlink. “Still no sign of them.”

Mainframe’s voice crackled. “You’re on the very edge of communicable distance.”

“Where the hell did they go?”

And  _ that _ was when she saw the abandoned jetpack.

The piece of equipment had been stuck to the wall by an anchor. There was no other sign, and nothing on the cavern floor as far as Cirra could tell. One of the girls must have had to abandon it.

“There’s a jetpack stuck to the wall. No other equipment around.”

Peter’s voice was strained, even under the steadily increasing static. “Maybe it malfunctioned and they used it as a marker for when we came searching.”

“They might be on the cavern floor, then. Let me just…”

She reached out to touch the abandoned jetpack and was hit with the tremendous force of a rigged shock bomb. The thrusters on her pack spluttered and died, and she was surrounded by the weightlessness of a long, long fall.

* * *

 

When Cirra came to, she was surrounded by walls made of thick, yellowed bone. There were no windows, no lights, only a door made of bars and the dark silhouettes of two figures sitting up against the wall. Cirra struggled to sit up, still dazed from the shock bomb. Her vision was fuzzy and the cell was dimly lit, but she could just barely make out Gamora’s green face and Mantis’s huge eyes.

Mantis scooted close to her, reaching out a hand. “Are you alright, Cirra?”

“I’ve been hit by worse,” Cirra replied, gently pushing the empath’s hand away. Definitely didn’t need the girl to know how she was feeling at the moment. “Nevermind that, I’m fine. What about you two? Are you okay? What happened?”

“My equipment malfunctioned,” Gamora said. She shifted, wincing, but offered no explanation for what might have been hurting her. “Mantis caught me and we hit the cavern floor right next to an encampment of Vyrae soldiers. They grabbed us and brought us here.”

“We are not hurt, but we do not know what they will do with us,” Mantis said.

Cirra wasn’t sure Gamora was quite telling the truth about being hurt, not since she’d seen her face when the girl tried to move, but didn’t press the issue. If Gamora could at least walk, she’d be able to make it to the ship where Cirra could check her out properly. But they had to get out of the cell first.

Cirra inched towards the wall so that she could rest against it. Her back throbbed with every twitch; her jetpack must have cut back on and propelled her upwards enough to cushion the fall and keep her from completely breaking her back. “Well, if I know the Vyrae, I can tell you what they’ll probably do with us, which means we have to get out of here. Soon. They eat anything that’s not their own species.”

“They’ll change guards eventually,” Gamora said. “We overpower them when they come in to check on us, take their weapons, and find our way out of here.”

“We need to find our equipment or at least a commlink. If we can get within range of the Reaver, we can hail Mainframe and get out of the Torso.”

Mantis wrung her hands fitfully. “What if they’ve already left?”

Cirra shook her head. “They haven't. Peter’s not going to leave you two, and Stakar and Aleta aren't going to leave me. You never know with them; they might bust in here at any minute.”

Gamora sighed. “If they can find us.”

“Which means we need to make it a little easier for them to see where we are.”

The green girl raised her eyebrows. “I think we can make a nice display. If we can find our equipment, we can set off some of the grenades.”

Cirra swooned a little bit. “Oh, Gamora, I knew I liked you for a reason.”

“Then this is what we need to do.”

Gamora drew them in close so as not speak loudly enough that anyone who happened to walk by could hear them. Vyrae weren’t typically large, so the three of them would have no trouble taking down one or two so they could scavenge their weapons. They just had to figure out how to draw one into the cell.

Gamora broke the circle, and the three women scooted off into their positions. They had elected that Gamora would pretend to sleep against the wall next to the door while Cirra relaxed against the back wall. Mantis would be unconscious on the floor, possibly in need of help or at least looking particularly vulnerable to the Vyrae soldier’s carnivorous eye. 

The footsteps clunking against the cold stone floor denoted that one of the guards was coming to check on them. The sound of a security pass pinged in the still air, and the bars slid neatly into hidden openings in the floor. The soldier walked in, clicking in his native language. Cirra could understand him perfectly, but tilted her head in mock confusion, gesturing down at Mantis’s apparently unconscious body.

He’d asked if Mantis was dead. When he received no answer, he knelt down next to her body and sniffed. Gamora took the opportunity to spring up, wrap her elegant hands around the guard’s insectoid head, and twist.

The soldier was dead before he’d even had time to register that Gamora had touched him. He dropped his weapon as his body fell; the gun skittered against the bone floor. Cirra stepped over the body to help Mantis to her feet and motioned towards the gun.

“Get his gun, Gamora. You’re the best shot,” she said as she frisked the body for the guard’s security pass. She waved it against the console on the door; once against, the bars slipped neatly, and most importantly  _ silently _ , into the floor. “Let’s go.”

They bolted down the halls, waving the security pass in front of every opaque door until they came upon one that housed their equipment. They each grabbed a bag, not caring whose was whose, and whatever was close that was vaguely weapon-shaped. There were no guns, but Cirra snagged a training staff and Mantis picked up a nasty-looking knife.

The Vyrae soldiers must have seen the commotion on their cameras. Guards flooded down the hallway clad in their glistening insectoid armor, brandishing plasma rifles and clicking away.

Mantis held her knife aloft, hand shaking. “What are they saying?”

“They’re saying not to let us get to the exit,” Cirra replied. 

Cirra waved the pass against the door console that led to a long, yellowed hallway lit by the shoddiest of lights. They raced down the hall, guards spilling in behind them and firing their plasma rifles with abandon.

“You can understand them?” Gamora yelled.

“Yeah! Now shoot them, they’re right behind us!”

Gamora fired into the crowd of soldiers, and they scattered like ants. While the soldiers were momentarily distracted, Cirra grabbed both of the women and pulled them into one of the rooms she’d just opened by waving the pass. The room was graciously empty. 

She extracted a plasma grenade from her pack, twisted the top, and threw it out into the hall. The orb fizzed, then exploded, raining bits and pieces of insectoid soldier through the hall. Their blackish blood and shifting lavender carapace painted the walls like a galaxy of bruises.

They ran before more guards could come spilling into the hall to find their brethren decorating the walls. The door at the end of the hall contained a window that exposed the flesh of the Torso outside.

“That’s the exit!” Gamora yelled, and took off.

They burst through the door, right in the middle of the Vyrae encampment. The camp was silent for less than a second, and then every soldier in the camp turned to look at them.

Cirra stopped, wide-eyed. “Oh, fuck.”

“Run!”

Cirra pulled another grenade out of her bag and threw it into the middle of the camp. The guards scrambled, some towards them, but most ran in the opposite direction. The grenade blew, catching only a few of the guards but just enough to cause confusion and provide a much-needed distraction.

Cirra kept her finger on the commlink button. “Keep firing behind us, Gamora! I’m gonna keep paging Mainframe until I can get a signal!”

They weaved through outcroppings of muscle and tissue, skirting around pieces of ancient celestial organs. Static was the only sound coming through the commlink, but Cirra kept on pressing the button anyway. Thankfully, they were faster than the Vyrae, and Gamora was an impeccable shot. 

Ahead, just behind an outcropping of bone, was a cavernous divet in the muscle of the Torso that must have been rotting out for centuries. Cirra dove into the cavern, grabbing Gamora and Mantis before they could blast past her. She held her finger against the commlink, and finally Mainframe’s chirping voice came in through the piece in her ear.

The droid was distraught. “Cirra? Are you there? Are you okay?”

“A little banged up, but I’m alive. I found Gamora and Mantis, too! We’re all basically okay.”

“I’ve got the signal on your tracker! We’ll be right there!”

“Hurry, please!”

They could hear the insectoid clicking of the Vyrae as they drew closer. Cirra pulled two grenades out of her bag and handed one to Mantis; Gamora hefted her plasma rifle. They twisted the tops on the grenades and threw them out of the mouth of the cave when they could just see the tops of the Vyrae’s heads. Gamora started picking them off one by one with well-placed shots right to the face.

The grenades blew and the three of them were splatted by bug guts. Gamora had just picked off two of the guards when the leading edge of the Reaver slipped into view, black and menacing against the exposed muscle tissue on the Torso ceiling.

Mainframe beeped into the commlink. “You need to make a break for it now! You’re clear, but there’s a host of soldiers coming your way. We’re ready to take you up!”

Cirra waved them towards the mouth of the cave. “Let’s go!”

They bolted from the cave, feet squishing against the soft floor of the Torso. The Reaver’s transportation beam sparkled blue, and as they broke into the circle of light, they were lifted off their feet and pulled aboard the docking deck. Off in the distance, they could see the host of Vyrae soldiers, and all three women were immensely thankful that they weren’t still on the Torso floor.

The doors closed under them and the blue beam dissipated. They made no move to get up, instead preferring to lay on the cold metal floor, panting. They didn’t move, they didn’t speak, they didn’t even twitch their little fingers. Cirra certainly didn’t plan on getting up off the floor anytime soon. In fact, she’d probably try to coerce Charlie into carrying her to her room.

After a long, long silence, Cirra said, “Let’s not do that again.”

“Agreed.”

“Agreed.”

Aleta was the first one to burst through the docking bay door; she was followed almost immediately by Stakar and Peter. The rest trailed behind as if trying to edge the three team leaders out of the way.

Aleta knelt down next to Cirra and helped her up into a sitting position. “Are you hurt?”

“I feel like I got tazed a few times, but otherwise I’m fine.”

“Well, you did get electrocuted by a shock bomb, so I’m quite astounded that you’re still standing.”

Stakar helped Gamora to her feet and handed her off to Drax so that she could lean on him. Peter all but picked Mantis up, preferring to keep her close as she was incredibly unsteady on her feet. Stakar held out his hand for Cirra to take, which she took; she used Aleta for leverage.

Peter dusted off Gamora’s shoulder. “Are you two okay?”

Gamora nodded shortly; she stood stiffly so as not to bend her spine unnecessarily. “Sore from being jerked around, but otherwise unhurt.”

Stakar hefted all three of their packs, tossing them over his back as if they were feather-light. “Were you able to recover the spinal fluid?”

“Stakar!” Aleta snapped.

“I’m just asking!”

Gamora reached for the pack. “I believe all of the specimens are still intact. Cirra’s medical supplies are also in there.”

Stakar handed the packs to Krugarr; he took them without making a comment with his magical red hands. “Krugarr, take these down to command and put them with the rest of the specimens. We need to regroup in the command room.”

Cirra huffed. Her back pulsed with the beat of her heart, throbbing with every push of blood through her veins. “We can regroup after the three of us get checked out down in the medical bay.”

“We’ll meet back up for dinner, then.”

“Yeah, alright. Aleta?”

Aleta held out her arm. Cirra took it, and together along with Mantis, Peter, and Drax, they limped off to the elevator. They ordered the elevator to take them down to the medical bay where they could be treated for their wounds.

* * *

 

They managed to regroup before dinner. The three girls had been checked out down in the medical bay, and thankfully none of them required an extended stay down in the ward. Gamora was sore, but her body modifications had saved her from a busted coccyx. Mantis was unhurt, but slightly upset; she wasn’t used to the action-packed lifestyle just yet. Cirra had two cracked vertebrae, so the medics had slapped a brace on her and doped her up with analgesics. She’d be fine in a couple of days thanks to accelerated Waux healing, but her back still hurt like a bitch.

Stakar had taken the liberty of having their rations brought up to command to circumvent the need for meeting in the mess hall. Unfortunately, the chairs were just as uncomfortable as they always were. Gamora sat down gingerly in her chair, and Cirra was resting on the precipice of her chair so that her back wasn’t touching anything.

A pyramid of jars decorated the center table of the command room. Stakar had been working on getting an estimate for their potential worth, and it was looking exceptionally promising.

“All in all, this should net us around a billion units.”

Rocket had stretched himself out on the couch, his furry little feet naked and toes reaching out like a burglar's fingers. “Have you found a buyer?”

“Nothing concrete yet, but you don’t wanna be too obvious about this stuff. I’m gonna send some whispers in the right directions and see what kind of offers we get.”

Peter was intrigued by the promise of a billion units, but he had tunnel vision at this point. It was all about Yondu right now. “What about passing into the Gardener’s quadrant? When are we doing this?”

“Gamora is going to start navigating us through this quadrant at 0800 tomorrow morning,” Stakar said. He opened his foil packet and dug into the gelatinous green goo in his foil. “Tonight, we’re going to relax and recover.”

“We should be there in a matter of days, no more than a week,” Gamora replied.

“Which means we’re that much closer to getting Yondu back,” Peter said.

“And making a shit ton of units!” Rocket crowed.

“That, too.”

Peter wolfed down his green jelly and made a show out of producing a huge pack of beers from some hidden space in the command room that he’d found. “So, Cirra, speaking of Yondu, can you pick up where you left off?”

Cirra sighed. “Aw, come on, can’t I just go to bed tonight?”

Stakar pulled his sneer-lipped smile, snickering. “Well, you could, but that means that Aleta and I would be the ones to pick up on the next leg of your story.”

“Point taken. Where was I, Peter?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is more backstory (and probably a rating change - lots of booty ahead).
> 
> Chapter title is Along Too Long by Hall and Oates!


End file.
